Valdemar 05 - [Vows & Honor 02] - Oathbreakers Page 6

  Kethry grinned outright, remembering that Jodi’s other specialty was subterfuge, infiltration, and assassination. “Take my word for it, the real difference between a Masterclass mage and an apprentice is not in the amount of power, it’s in the usage. You’ve been over this trail already; what do you think—are we going to make trail’s end by dark?.”

  Jodi narrowed her eyes, taking a moment. “No,” she said finally, “I don’t think so. That’s when I’ll take point, when it starts to get dark. And that’s when we’ll have to be most alert.”

  Kethry nodded, absently, and pulled her hood closer about her neck against a lick of wind. “If an attack comes, it’s likely to be then. And the same goes for accident?”

  “Aye.”

  It was growing dark, far faster than Kethry liked, and there was still no end to the trail in sight. But there had also been no sign that their movement was being followed—

  Suddenly her nerves twanged like an ill-tuned harpstring. For one short, disorienting moment, she vibrated in backlash, for that heartbeat or two of time completely helpless to think or act. Then nearly fifteen years of training and practice took over, and without even being aware of it, she gathered mage-energy from the core of her very being and formed a net of it—a net to catch what was even now about to fall.

  Just in time; up ahead in the darkness, she heard the slide of rock, a horse’s fear-ridden shriek, and the harsh cry of a man seeing his own death looming in his face. She felt the energy-net sag, strain—then hold.

  She clamped her knees around Hellsbane’s barrel and dropped her reins, telling the horse mutely to “stand.” The battlesteed obeyed, bracing all four hooves, far steadier than the rocks about her. Kethry firmed her concentration until it was adamantine, and closed her eyes against distraction. Since she could not see what she was doing, this would take every wisp of her attention—

  Gently, this must be done as gently as handling a pennybird chick new-hatched. If she frightened the horse, and it writhed out of her energy-net—horse and rider would plummet to their doom.

  She cupped her hands before her, echoing the form of the power-net, and contemplated it.

  Broken lines of power showed her where the path had collapsed, and the positioning of her “net” told her without her seeing the trail ahead just where her captives were cradled.

  “Keth—” Jodi’s voice came from the darkness ahead, calm and steady; no sign of panic there. “We lost a very short section of the path; those of you behind us won’t have any problem jumping the gap. The immediate problem is the rider that went over. It’s Gerrold and Vetch; the horse is half over on his right side and Gerrold’s pinned under him, but neither one of them is hurt and you caught both before they slid more than a few feet. Gerrold’s got the beast barely calmed, but he’s not struggling. Can you do anything more for them other than just holding them?”

  Kethry eased her concentration just enough to answer. “If I get them righted, maybe raise them a bit, can he get Vetch back onto the path?”

  “You can do that?”

  “I can try—”

  Hoof sounds going, then returning. Kethry “read” the lines of energy cradling the man and beast, slowly getting a picture of how they were lying by the shape of the energy-net.

  “Gerrold’s got Vetch gentled and behaving. He says if you take it slow—”

  Kethry did not answer, needing all her focus on the task at hand. Slowly she moved her fingers; as she did she lessened the pressure on one side of the net, increased it on the other, until the shape within began to tilt upright. There was a lessening of tension within the net, as horse and rider lost fear; that helped.

  Now, beneath the hooves of the trapped horse she firmed the net until it was as strong as the steadiest ground, taking away some of the mage threads from the sides to do so. When nothing untoward occurred, she took more of those threads, using them to raise the level of that surface, slowly, carefully, so as not to startle the horse. One by one she rewove those threads, raising the platform thumblength by agonizing thumblength.

  She was shaking and drenched with sweat by the time she got it high enough, and just about at the end of her strength. When a clatter of hooves on rock and an exultant shout told her that Gerrold had gotten his mount back onto safe ground, she had only enough energy left to cling to her saddle for the last few furlongs of the journey.

  “Right now,” Idra said quietly, stretched out along a hilltop next to Tarma, “The old war-horse should be giving them a good imitation of a tired old war-horse.”

  The hilltop gave them a fairly tolerable view for furlongs in any direction; they were just beyond the range of Kelcrag’s sentries, and Kethry was shielding them in the way she had learned from the example of Moonsong k‘Vala, the Tale’edras Adept from the Pelagiris Forest—making them seem a part of the landscape—to mage-sight, just a thicket of brinle-bushes. In the far distance was the pass; filling it was the dark blot of Kelcrag’s forces.

  At this moment—as he had for the last two days—Leamount was giving a convincing imitation of a commander truly interested in coming to an agreement with his enemy. Heralds had been coming and going hour by hour with offers and counter-offers—all of this false negotiation buying time for the Hawks to get into place.

  “Well, it’s now or never,” Idra said finally, as she and Tarma abandoned their height and squirmed down their side of the hill to join her company. “Kethry?”

  Kethry, on foot like all the rest, nodded and joined hands with her two mage-partners. “Shield your eyes,” she warned them. “It’ll go on a count of five.”

  Tarma and the rest of the Hawks averted their eyes and turned their horses’ heads away as Kethry counted slowly. When Kethry reached five, there was a flare of light so bright that it shone redly through Tarma’s eyelids even with her head turned. It was followed by a second flash, and then a third.

  From a distance it would look like the lightning that flickered every day along the hillsides. But Leamount’s mages were watching this particular spot for just that signal of three flickers of light, and testing for energy-auras to see if it was mage-light and not natural lightning. Now Leamount would break off his negotiations and resume his attacks on Kelcrag’s army, concentrating on the eastern edge. That would seem reasonable: Kelcrag had stationed his foot there; they might be vulnerable to a charge of heavy cavalry. Leamount’s own western flank was commanded by Lord Shoveral, whose standard was a badger and whose mode of battle matched his token; he was implacable in defense, but no one had yet seen him on the attack, so Kelcrag might well believe that he had no heart for it.

  He was, one hoped, about to be surprised.

  One also hoped, fervently, that Kelcrag’s mages had not noticed that it was mage-light and not lightning that had flickered to their rear.

  :They’ve no reason to look for mage-light, mindmate,: Warrl said soberly. :Kelcrag’s wizards are all courtly types. They very seldom think about hiding what they’re doing, or trying to make it seem like something natural. To them, mage-light is something to illuminate a room with, not something to use for a signal. If they wish to pass messages, they make a sending.:

  “I hope you’re right, Furface,” Tarma replied, mounting. “The more surprised they are, the more of us are going to survive this.”

  At Idra’s signal, the Hawks moved into a disciplined canter; no point in trying too hard to stay undercover now.

  They urged their mounts over hills covered only with scraggy bushes and dead, dry grass; they would have been hard put to find any cover if they’d needed it. But luck was with them.

  They topped a final hilltop and only then encountered Kelcrag’s few sentries. They were all afoot; the lead riders coldly picked them off with a few well-placed arrows before they could sound an alert. The sentries fell, either pierced with arrows or stumbling over their wounded comrades. And the fallen were trampled—for the Hawks’ horses were war-trained, and a war-trained horse does not hesitate when given t
he signal to make certain of a fallen foe. That left no chance that Kelcrag could be warned.

  Ahead of the riders, now stretching their canter into a gallop, was the baggage train.

  Kethry and her two companions rode to the forefront for the moment. Each mage was haloed by one of Kethry’s glowing mage-shields; a shield that blurred the edges of vision around a mage and his mount as well. It made Tarma’s eyes ache to look at them, so she tried not to. The shields wouldn’t deflect missiles, but not being able to look straight at your target made that target damned hard to hit.

  The two hedge-wizards growled guttural phrases, made elaborate throwing motions—and smoking, flaming balls appeared in the air before their hands to fly at the wagons and supplies. Kethry simply locked her hands together and held them out in front of her—and each wagon or tent she stared at burst into hot blue flame seemingly of its own accord.

  This was noisy; it was meant to be. The noncombatants with the baggage—drovers, cooks, personal servants, the odd whore—were screaming in fear and fleeing in all directions, adding to the noise. There didn’t seem to be anyone with enough authority back here to get so much as a fire brigade organized.

  The Hawks charged through the fires and the frightened, milling civilians, and headed straight for the rear of Kelcrag’s lines. Now Kethry and the mages had dropped back until they rode—a bit more protected—in the midst of the Sunhawks. They would be needed now only if one of Kelcrag’s mages happened to be stationed on this flank.

  For the rest, it was time for bow work. Kelcrag’s men—armored cavalry here, for the most part; nobles and retainers, and mostly young—were still trying to grasp the fact that they’d been hit from the rear.

  The Hawks swerved just out of bowshot, riding their horses in a flanking move along the back of the lines. They didn’t stop; that would make them stationary targets. They just began swirling in and out at the very edge of the enemy’s range, as Tarma led the first sortie to engage.

  About thirty of them peeled off from the main group, galloping forward with what must look to Kelcrag’s men like utter recklessness. It wasn’t; they stayed barely within their range as they shot into the enemy lines. This was what the Hawks were famous for, this horseback skirmishing. Most of them rode with reins in their teeth, a few, like Tarma and Jodi, dropped their reins altogether, relying entirely on their weight and knees to signal their mounts. Tarma loosed three arrows in the time it took most of the rest of her sortie group to launch one, her short horse-bow so much a part of her that she thought of nothing consciously but picking her targets. She was aware only of Ironheart’s muscles laboring beneath her legs, of the shifting smoke that stung eyes and carried a burnt flavor into the back of her throat, of the sticky feel of sweat on her back, of a kind of exultation in her skill—and it was all over in heartbeats. Arrows away, the entire group wheeled and galloped to the rear of the Hawks, already nocking more missiles—for hard on their heels came a second group, a third—it made for a continuous rain of fire that was taking its toll even of heavily armored men—and as they rode, the Hawks jeered at their enemies, and shouted Idra’s rallying call. The hail of arrows that fell on the enemy wounded more horses than men—a fact Tarma was sorry about—but the fire, the hail of arrows, and the catcalls inflamed their enemy’s tempers in a way that nothing else could have done.

  And, as Leamount and Idra had planned, the young, headstrong nobles let those tempers loose.

  They broke ranks, leaders included, and charged their mocking foes. All they thought of now was to engage the retreating Hawks, forgetful of their orders, forgetful of everything but that this lot of commoners had pricked their vanity and was now getting away.

  Now the Hawks scattered, breaking into a hundred little groups, their purpose accomplished.

  Tarma managed to get to Kethry’s side, and the two of them plowed their way back through the burning wreckage of the baggage train.

  Iron-shod hooves pounding, their mounts raced as if they’d been harnessed side by side. Kethry clung grimly to the pommel of her saddle, as her partner could see out of the corner of her eye. She was not the horsewoman that the Shin‘a’in was, she well knew it, and Hellsbane was galloping erratically; moving far too unpredictably for her to draw Need. At this point she was well-nigh helpless; it would be up to Tarma and the battlemares to protect her.

  An over-brave pikeman rose up out of the smoke before them, thinking to hook Tarma from her seat. She ducked beneath his pole arm, and Ironheart trampled him into the red-stained mud. Another footman made a try for Kethry, but Hellsbane snapped at him, crushed his shoulder in her strong teeth, shook him like a dog with a rag while he shrieked, then dropped him again. A rider who thought to intercept them had the trick Tarma and Ironheart had played on Duke Greyhame’s sentry performed on him and his steed—only in deadly earnest. Ironheart reared, screaming challenge, and crow-hopped forward. The gelding the enemy rode backed in panic from the slashing hooves, and as they passed him, his rider’s head was kicked in before they could get out of range.

  The battlesteeds kited through the smoke and flames of the burning camp with no more fear of either than of the scrubby shrubbery. Three times Tarma turned in her saddle and let fly one of the lethal little arrows of the Shin‘a’in—as those pursuing found to their grief, armor was of little use when an archer could find and target a helm-slit.

  Then shouting began behind them; their pursuers pulled up, looked back—and began belatedly to return to their battleline. Too late—for Lord Shoveral had made his rare badger’s charge—and had taken full advantage of the hole that the work of the Sunhawks had left in Kelcrag’s lines. Kelcrag’s forces were trapped between Shoveral and the shale cliffs, with nowhere to retreat.

  Using her knees, Tarma signaled Ironheart to slow, and Hellsbane followed her stablemate’s lead. Tarma couldn’t make out much through the blowing smoke, but what she could see told her all she needed to know. Kelcrag’s banner was down, and there was a milling mass of men—mostly wearing Leamount’s scarlet surcoats—where it had once stood. All over the field, fighters in Kelcrag’s blue were throwing down their weapons.

  The civil war was over.

  Kethry touched the tip of her index finger to a spot directly between the sweating fighter’s eyebrows; he promptly shuddered once, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he sagged into the waiting arms of his shieldbrother.

  “Lay him out there—that’s right—” Rethaire directed the disposition of the now-slumbering Hawk. His partner eased him down slowly, stretching him out on his back on a horseblanket, with his wounded arm practically in the herbalist’s lap. Rethaire nodded. “—good. Keth—”

  Kethry blinked, coughed once, and shook her head a little. “Who’s next?” she asked.

  “Bluecoat.”

  Kethry stared askance at him. A Bluecoat? One of Kelcrag’s people?

  Rethaire frowned. “No, don’t look at me that way, he’s under Mercenary’s Truce; he’s all right or I wouldn’t have let him in here. He’s one of Devaril’s Demons.”

  “Ah.” The Demons had a good reputation among the companies, even if most of Devaril’s meetings with Idra generally ended up as shouting matches. Too bad they’d been on opposite sides in this campaign.

  Rethaire finished dusting the long, oozing slash in their companion’s arm with blue-green powder, and began carefully sewing it up with silk thread. “Well, are you going to sit there all day?”

  “Right, I’m on it,” she replied, getting herself to her feet. “Who’s with him?”

  “My apprentice, Dee. The short one.”

  Kethry pushed sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes, and tried once again to get it all confined in a tail while she glanced around the space outside the infirmary tent, looking for the green-clad, chubby figure of Rethaire’s youngest apprentice. She resolutely shut out the sounds of pain and the smell of sickness and blood; she kept telling herself that this was not as bad as it could have been. The worst casualties were
under cover of the tent; those out here were the ones that would be walking (or limping) back to their own quarters when they woke up from Rethaire’s drugs or Kethry’s spell. They were all just lucky that it was still only overcast and not raining. Sun would have baked them all into heatstroke. Rain ... best not think about fever and pneumonia.

  With no prospect of further combat, Kethry was no longer hoarding her magical energies, either personal or garnered from elsewhere, but the only useful spell she had when it came to healing wounds like these was the one that induced instant slumber. So that was her job; put the patients out, while Rethaire or his assistants sewed and splinted them back together again.

  Poor Jiles and Oreden didn’t even have that much to do; although as Low Magick practitioners they did have Healing abilities, they’d long since exhausted their powers, and now were acting as plain, nonmagical attendants to Tresti. That was what was bad about a late-fall campaign for them; with most of the land going into winter slumber, there was very little ambient energy for a user of Low Magick to pull on.

  Tarma was out with Jodi and a few of Leamount’s farriers, salvaging what horses they could, and killing the ones too far gone to save. And, sometimes, performing the same office for a human or two.

  Kethry shuddered, and wiped the back of her hand across her damp forehead, frowning when she looked at it and saw how filthy it was.

  Thank the gods that stuff of Rethaire’s prevents infection, or we’d lose half the wounded. We’ve lost too many as it is. That last sortie had cost the Sunhawks dearly; they were down to two hundred. Fifty were dead, three times that were wounded. Virtually everyone had lost a friend; the uninjured were tending wounded companions.

  But it could have been so much worse—so very much worse.

  She finally spotted apprentice Dee, and picked her way through the prone and sleeping bodies to get to his side.