Blade of Empire Read online

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense!” Ladyholder Arhondiniel of Amrolion said, breaking the silence at last. “Who was it? Not Hamphuliadiel. That would be too much to hope for.”

  “No, my lady,” Isilla said wearily. “It was not Hamphuliadiel Astromancer. It was Lord Runacarendalur Caerthalien, brother to the Oathbreaker.”

  * * *

  A sennight later there was a different—and far more private—meeting. Leopheine and Damulothir stood on the battlements of Daroldan Great Keep beneath the shimmering veil of Shield. The two War Princes were the only ones on the tower. There was no need to watch for attack from above with the keep protected by Shield.Two or three times each candlemark a stone would fall from the sky, dropped by flying things too high to see. The Shield would flare more brightly, the missile would either shatter or rebound, and the wait would begin for the next one. By now, the land around Daroldan Great Keep was littered with fallen stones.

  “If we don’t leave before we have to, we’ll never leave at all,” Leopheine announced.

  “Cryptic as ever, old friend. Clearly the south gave you a taste for riddles,” Damulothir said gently.

  “Not riddles,” Leopheine said. “Just common sense. Caerthalien joining forces with the Beastlings … Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?”

  “Too much, and not enough,” Damulothir said grimly. “But we do not face Caerthalien, thank Sword and Star. Before Farspeech became impossible, we heard it was erased, just as Farcarinon was erased. The whole of its royal line died, to the last soul.”

  “Except for one,” Leopheine said grimly. “And whether he is prince of nothing, or lord of a hundred thousand swords, it does not change the facts. How many komen of our combined meisne remain?”

  Damulothir sighed, shaking his head. They both knew the answer to that: too few.

  “And we do not know where Lord Caerthalien’s forces are—only where they are not,” Leopheine went on. “All we know is that they have not vanished forever.”

  “Clearly we are both quite knowledgeable,” Damulothir said acidly. “And you wish to say that we should flee.”

  “Daroldan will fall,” Leopheine said quietly. “To starvation, if to nothing else. And you are right to wish to hold it as long as you can. I pledge myself to this undertaking. But … our farmers, our herders, our landsfolk … they have no part in our last battle.”

  “You would have me send them east,” Damulothir said. He shifted slightly, turning his gaze from the open land between forest and shore to the forest itself. “Through that.”

  “No,” Leopheine said. “Send them north. Delfierarathadan stops in the foothills of the Medharthas—you know that as well as anyone. It will be hard going, but safer than if they stay.”

  “If they go with an escort that can defend them,” Damulothir said flatly. Since the moment their last gambit had failed, he had known this moment would come—the day every War Prince of the Western Shore dreaded. The day the Shore would fall at last. “Let it be done. I send my people east, to the Sanctuary of the Star. What say you, brother?”

  “I as well,” Leopheine said. “Your Rangers, my komen … let us pray that the Silver Hooves will take their sacrifice from those who remain, and not from those who go.”

  “Be thankful that our ancestors did not live to see this day,” Damulothir said starkly.

  * * *

  “They’re moving.” Bralros’s statement roused Runacar out of a fitful doze. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. Or hot tea. Or dry clothes. Evacuating the Flower Forest was harder than either scouring the Western Reach or attacking the Western Shore. There were water spirits, pond spirits, the forever-insufficiently-to-be-damned Dryads (apple, oak, ash, and several other kinds, none of which cooperated with each other), something called a Least Drake and something else called a Greater Serpent (Runacar couldn’t tell them apart), and dozens more—not to mention the non-magical creatures such as deer, squirrels, and shore-apes. All of which had to be convinced to leave Delfierarathadan so that Runacar could burn it down in peace—a matter which every single one of them, seen and unseen, apparently wanted to discuss.

  And the Otherfolk, of course, wanted to fight a war without losses.

  It had been a very long four sennights.

  “Who are moving? What? Did you finally get those damned Dryads to see reason?” He shoved his hair out of his eyes, thinking that if it weren’t for the politics of the situation, he would have been delighted to set fire to that oak grove of viper-tongued harpies himself. The last time he’d said anything like that aloud, Keloit had reminded him that Harpies were actually rather mild-mannered. Unlike oak Dryads. Runacar was just as glad that he couldn’t see them, or most of the folk they’d spent last moonturn trying to evacuate from the Flower Forest.

  Bralros gave a dry cough of amusement. “The ladies continue to be obdurate. Leutric is sending an emissary who should be able to persuade them. Melisha should be here in a few days.”

  Leutric’s call for aid to those who would help if they did not have to fight had been astonishingly successful. Audalo was pleased at this sign of cooperation with the King-Emperor, while Runacar wondered if the new recruits were more trouble than they were worth.

  “Melisha isn’t one of those invisible cats, is she?” he asked warily.

  The Palugh resembled the small wild cat of the northern forests—if such creatures had been striped in a vivid orange and black, had the power to become invisible at will, and could talk—assuming you could answer the riddles they posed, which you had to solve if you wanted to actually manage to have a conversation with them.

  Bralros smiled. “No, Rune, not an invisible cat, I promise. But why distress yourself over tomorrow when I have good news today? Just as you swore—the Houseborn are fleeing.”

  “They’ve left the Keep?” The news brought Runacar completely awake. “Which way are they going?”

  “North,” Bralros said. “Just as you swore they would.”

  “Is anyone following them?” Runacar asked.

  “Not on the ground,” Bralros answered. “Not yet, anyway. We wanted to ask your advice, first.”

  Runacar looked up through the forest canopy. The sky was still a dark steel-blue. “It’s Drotha, isn’t it? Drotha’s the one who is following them.”

  Bralros sighed. “He volunteered. The Hippogriffs did not and the Gryphons are asleep.”

  “Of course he did,” Runacar said wearily. “I just hope he remembers that they’re supposed to escape.”

  It was time to call a council of war.

  * * *

  “We finally have them moving in the direction we need them to,” Runacar said, peering at the map that lay unscrolled across his knee. “They’re doing as I’d do in their place—going north along the old Northern Road. According to reports, their force consists primarily of noncombatants—Craftworkers, fishers, farmers—along with the whole of their mounted forces.”

  “But you said they’re still defending the castel,” Keloit said, puzzled. “Why would they send their fighters away?”

  “Because cavalry is very little use in a castel under siege,” Runacar said patiently, “and destriers eat a lot of grain. What they’ve kept at the castel—or, at least, what I would have kept there in their place—will be the majority of their Rangers and at least half their Lightborn—I’d keep as many as I could, but since the High King told them they’re all the equal of princes, Damulothir and Leopheine probably don’t have enough control over them to enforce that.”

  “You said that when they ran, we’d won,” Tanet said suspiciously. “But now you say we have to keep fighting. Make up your mind, Houseborn.”

  “We’ve won when all of them are gone from the Shore,” Runacar answered. “If we don’t take—and smash—Daroldan Great Keep, the War Princes will call their folk back to it the moment they can. Once they’ve reinvested it, then they’ll want to be sure we’re gone. That means Rangers and
Lightborn sweeping the forest—and if they get any idea of how many of us are here, they’ll set another fire. And we’re not ready for the fire yet.”

  “You think,” Tanet said dubiously.

  “Yes,” Runacar said levelly. “I think. I think as they do. I was trained as they were. And I am telling you what they will do if we do not press our advantage. So what we must— The strategy I suggest is this: send an element of our force to chase the refugees and keep them moving east. So long as they see us following, they’ll keep running. Once they’ve gone around the northern edge of the forest, they should continue on a southeastern salient until they reach the Trade Road. We want them to follow that, so we need to send messengers ahead to make certain there are no Otherfolk anywhere near their route—we don’t want them to veer off in another direction. Meanwhile, as soon as the forest is ready to burn, the rest of us will attack Daroldan Great Keep. It’s well within reach of the Ocean’s Own, which works in our favor. Our goal is to get the defenders to abandon it if we can, and to kill them all if we can’t—the refugees already in flight will be enough to undermine Hamphuliadiel’s control over Areve.”

  It all sounded very fine, Runacar thought, but if he had presented such a plan in his cadet days, both Lengiathion Warlord and Elrinonion Swordmaster would have asked the same single question: How were they going to besiege Daroldan Great Keep?

  And Runacar had absolutely no idea.

  It was at least a sennight before he had to worry about that, however: there was much to do beforehand, and most of it fell to him. He suggested the dispositions of the available forces and got his commanders to agree—with Audalo acting both as leader of the Minotaurs and as the voice of the King-Emperor. He sent the Folk of the Air—those who were not dropping rocks on the Keep, acting as messengers, or trying to coax the Brightfolk to relocate—to harry the refugees and to clear the path ahead of them. Runacar’s sympathy for King Leutric increased every time he was brought up against the unwarlike nature of the Otherfolk.

  Unwarlike and disorganized, both. But I suppose it is like trying to use Landbonds as armsmen: except that not only are the Otherfolk not trained for it, most of them have never even seen an armsman.

  He could not spare any landbound combatants to follow those who fled Daroldan, but fortunately, one of the races who had answered Leutric’s call for aid were the Wulvers, and unlike the Palugh, they were actually willing to be useful. Wulvers bore a faint resemblance to a hunting hound—just as Keloit did to a bear, or Pelere to a horse—and they could walk upright, though they preferred not to. They had no objections to harrying the Daroldan refugees, so long as that did not involve attacking them. Runacar was fairly sure the sight of a bustle of Wulvers would be enough to keep the Shorefolk fleeing until they reached the Mystrals

  The evacuation of Delfierarathadan was nearly complete and the rest of the Folk were set to burn the Flower Forest. They had been provided with firepots filled with oil and scattered across the whole of Delfierarathadan forest in small groups: in the oil was a substance supplied by the Bearward Spellmothers that would begin to burn unquenchably the moment it was exposed to air or water. Once Runacar knew they were all in position—by which time those damned Dryads and everything else with a heartbeat should have moved east—he could set Delfierarathadan ablaze.

  And as all the elements of the final battle moved into place, Runacar gathered up his army and began to march north once again.

  * * *

  The sky was brilliantly blue, and far above, a lone hawk soared. Runacar rode Hialgo, and his armor gleamed brilliantly. Mark the day, Lord Bolecthindial would have said. You don’t know for certain you will ever see another. In a few sunturns it would be Sword Moon, the traditional beginning of War Season. Runacar wondered if he was the last one who remembered the old calendar and the old festivals. He wondered what the High King’s Court was like. He remembered, when he was a small boy—six? seven?—being set to work to help his father’s Arming Page clean his armor. He’d been so filled with importance at the grandeur of the task that he’d been quite insufferable, and his elder brother Thorogalas had threatened to throw him from the watchtower of Caerthalien Keep.

  Now Thorogalas and all the rest of his kin were dead, and so much of that history, that world, was gone and lost. Runacar had burned a fair portion of it himself, too. He wished he could still truly believe in the glory of war, but he suspected he’d lost that on the Plains of Ifjalasairaet, where Ivrulion had brought eternal shame to Caerthalien. He shook his head at his own foolishness: Caerthalien had been erased beyond shame or honor.

  Daroldan Great Keep was visible in the distance, its shape undimmed by Shield, for the Folk of the Air had stopped their bombardment three sunturns ago. The Keep, for whatever mad reasons of its War Prince’s ancestors, was built on a cliff directly overlooking the sea, and the Ocean’s Own would move into formation at the foot of the cliffs at the same time the landbound army took up their positions on the landward side. The army was arranged as much for its effect on the defenders as it was for use, and the sea force moved parallel to them. Runacar knew with certainty that the combined force of the Otherfolk outnumbered the castel’s defenders, and showing Daroldan the Otherfolk’s superior numbers was a part of his strategy.

  Everyone was on edge, even though it wasn’t very likely that the War Princes knew what was about to happen. And even if they did, they’d committed to a tactical position that required them to hold Daroldan Keep, not make attacks on its besiegers.

  So much was guesswork. Runacar would have given a great deal to have at his command the tools he knew: Warlord, Swordmaster, Lightborn. Those were weapons—people—he knew how to use in the grand game of war. The Otherfolk …

  The Otherfolk had no interest in becoming weapons.

  * * *

  When Gunyel brought word that the last of the Hippogriff Flight had reported back—meaning the forest was ready to burn—Runacar called a halt even though it was only midday. They would make camp here. Setting Delfierarathadan ablaze would be far more dramatic at night, and he wanted the enemy to get the full benefit of the display.

  The army fragmented into its usual groups to cook and gamble and gossip. Only Gunyel, Drotha, Keloit, and a handful of others remained beside Runacar. Waiting. Tonight there were to be more sentries and night guards than ever before, for fire was not a thing you could order to perform at your whim, and the army needed to be wary of it. The Ocean’s Own had promised to evacuate them seaward at need, but there were still almost ten thousand persons in this camp and Runacar did not relish the prospect of trying to outrun a wildfire.

  It was a candlemark before sunfall when Runacar at last gave the order.

  “Set it alight,” he said quietly, and as soon as Gunyel took off, the whole Flight of Hippogriffs rushed into the sky with a booming thunder of wings. They wheeled once over the shore, gaining altitude, then flew eastward, scattering north and south as they flew. The fires would be set from east to west. Only the eastern line of teams needed to be commanded to begin: as they set their fires and headed westward, their arrival at each site would be the signal for that group to set its own blazes.

  Nothing else happened.

  “Anticlimactic,” Drotha said after a moment or two.

  “It will take time,” Runacar said. “But the final effect will be worth it.”

  * * *

  Night came, but aside from a certain watchfulness among the folk, it was a very ordinary night. There was singing and dancing—not harp or flute or any instrument Runacar had known in his life Before, but they made an exotic and beautiful noise. He caught a few scraps of “The Rout of Caerthalien,” and took a moment to wish he’d never given in to Radafa’s desire to learn the songs of his enemies.

  “Caerthalien ran and left behind / Bread and meat and silk and wine / Horses, hawks, and huntsmen bold / Chains of silver and chains of gold / Swords of price and armor bright / Left behind there in the night / Caerthalien ran and left behi
nd…”

  He found himself singing along under his breath and forced himself to stop. The tune was mesmerizing, but the battle itself held too many terrible memories. They should have seen the truth even then. They should have known what Vieliessar was. But greed and ambition and willful blindness had been like fetters of gold and lead. And no one had.

  He collected a skin of beer—Bralros had told him once that there was no point in doing anything at all if you didn’t have beer to drink while you did it—and found a comfortable rock to sit on. He put his back to the sea and stared in the direction of the forest. It was still dark.

  He tipped a little of the beer onto the sand. “Lord of the Starry Hunt,” he said, his voice a bare whisper, “forgive that this sacrifice is not blood. Forgive that it is not made for your people, but for these others. Only grant us victory here, and…” He could think of nothing to add. A promise of proper sacrifices? There was a Shrine somewhere in Delfierarathadan, but he was about to burn the forest over it. A promise of war? The Otherfolk wanted battles without casualties. “Only grant us victory,” he repeated awkwardly. “Please.”

  If They heard, They did not answer in any way he could hear.

  * * *

  By the time the moon rose—a fingernail crescent in the sky—Runacar could see a faint ruddy glow in the distance: the light of the fire reflecting off the smoke of the burning. They can see it now, if they look. But do they understand that by morning the whole forest will be burning? There was little scent of smoke, and anyone at Daroldan who did smell smoke would probably think it came from the army’s cook-fires.

  It was the largest act of destruction Runacar had ever been personally responsible for and he could not keep himself from thinking of the Ghostwood. That Flower Forest had been even larger than this one. The manner of destruction was different, but the result would be the same.

  “I name this place Ishtilaikh! Ruin!”

  When he finished the skin of ale, Runacar wandered along the camp’s perimeter, checking in with the watches and trying to gauge the progress of the fire. In theory, those not on watch should be sleeping, but nearly everyone was still awake. He knew he was not entirely welcome among them, even now, so before it became an issue, he returned to the edge of the shore to pace there. The wet sand was firmer, anyway.