Fire and Sword

Chapter 23

Gudon’s hands were tied to the pommel of a saddle. His horse was too big for his legs, and the muscles from his groin to his knees ached as if they had been permanently pulled out of shape. Prado would occasionally favor him by riding by his side and slapping and punching him, saying, “Tell me again where Lynan is,” and Gudon would concentrate to repeat the story without making a mistake, concentrate through the pain that filled him like a winter mist fills a valley.

“He found refuge with the queen.”

“Which queen?” Prado always asked, his scarred face scowling.

“Korigan, who succeeded Lynan.”

Prado, confused the first time he had heard the story, punched Gudon in the kidney. “How could she be the daughter of Lynan?” he roared in Gudon’s ear.

“Lynan is a Chett name,” Gudon had explained. “Lynan was the name of the first king of all the Chetts. Korigan is his daughter.”

“Why did Lynan find refuge with Korigan?”

“Because her clan is the White Wolf clan, and their territory is closest to the Strangers’ Sooq.” Gudon bit his tongue to make sure he did not tell the whole truth: the Strangers’ Sooq was in her territory.

“Where is the White Wolf clan?” Prado would ask.

For Gudon, this was the hardest part. “Maybe still at the High Sooq.”

And this is where Prado would always hit Gudon again. The last time he cut him with a knife, cut his ear right open so blood poured down his cheek and neck. “And if it isn’t at the High Sooq?”

“Then the clan is on its way to the Ox Tongue, the best spring grass in its territory.”

“Where is the Ox Tongue?”

And Gudon would stare at Prado and say, so quietly that the mercenary had to lean forward to hear his words, “It is a secret way. You must know the hills and valleys in between. I can show you the way, master, but please, please, let me live.”

Prado always laughed then, and slapped the Chett on the back in an almost genial way. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Show me the way to the Ox Tongue and I will think about it.”

So Gudon showed Jes Prado and his two thousand cavalry and his five hundred archers the way to the Ox Tongue.

Thewor was getting out of hand. Rendle decided it was time to kill him.

“How many bloody days are we going to chase a dust cloud, General?” Thewor demanded for what seemed the hundredth time, and for what seemed like the hundredth time, Rendle said, “The dust a herd pushes into the air can be deceptive. It can be a small herd close by or a large herd far away. We are chasing a large herd.”

“Then we are chasing a large clan!” Thewor shouted. “We will all be killed!”

“No, they are afraid of us, that is why they are moving away. If they were not afraid of us, we would already be dead. My people are now scouting, and they will not make mistakes like your scouts did. This time we will not only see the Chetts first, we will find out where their main group is and we will attack them. From prisoners, we will find out where Lynan is and complete our mission. It is even possible Lynan is with this clan, since they are so close to the east.”

“You are guessing, General,” Thewor said with a sneer. “You are an amateur at this game.”

Rendle gave the hand signal to his escort, and each of them slowly, carefully, edged their horses closer to a regular officer.

“You are not only an amateur, General,” Thewor continued, “you are a dangerous amateur.”

“And you speak too much,” Rendle said.

As Thewor opened his mouth to protest, Rendle drove a dagger up through the bottom of his throat. The point drove on, stabbing into the roof of Thewor’s mouth. Blood sprayed Rendle. He gave the dagger one good twist and pulled it out. Thewor, already dead, dropped from his saddle.

Not believing what they had seen, each of the regular officers hesitated a moment too long in reaching for their own swords, and in the next second they, too, died and dropped to the ground. All except one. The youngest officer. His mercenary guardian, under instruction, had clubbed him unconscious. He was kept in his saddle and, when Rendle was ready, was woken with water thrown in his face. He opened his eyes and looked around, remembered what had happened, and promptly fainted. Rendle sighed and ordered more water thrown in the young officer’s face. When he woke the second time, Rendle grabbed a handful of his hair and shook him so hard his eyeballs almost fell out.

“Stay awake,” Rendle ordered. “Your name is Ensign Tyco, is it not?”

“Yes, General.”

“You are now in command of all the regular forces, do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir. But Captain Yan is with the supply horses. He outranks me—”

“Find this Captain Yan and kill him immediately,” Rendle told one of his men, then turned back to Tyco. “You are now in command of all the regular forces. You will do as I tell you. You will not talk to me unless I talk to you first. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. In the name of King Salokan of Haxus, I promote you to captain.”

“Thank you—”

“Ah!” Rendle warned, and Tyco shut up. “You are to stay close to me, but not so close my men get nervous. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you may thank me.”

“Thank you, General.”

“You will make an excellent captain, Captain. Now hang back.”

Tyco reined back on his horse so he fell behind, still trying to absorb everything that had happened in the last few minutes and still dazed from the clubbing he had received. He looked over his shoulder and saw only a few hundred paces away the bodies of Thewor and all his fellow officers. He shat himself.

“We are close now,” Korigan said to Lynan. “Maybe a day’s ride, depending on how soft the grass is between here and the Ox Tongue.”

“Have our scouts sighted the mercenaries yet?”

“Terin has sent word of Rendle’s force. They are within a half day’s ride. We have no word yet about Prado.”

Lynan said a silent prayer for Gudon. He knew he had asked his friend to perform a mission so dangerous he might not survive it. But it had been the right thing to do, he told himself, and wished that was enough.

“They will be close, too. We will ride for half the night and then camp; but no fires. That will take us within half a day of the Ox Tongue.”

“Will that be close enough?” Korigan asked.

“It will have to be. I won’t risk Rendle’s or Prado’s scouts stumbling on us before we’re ready to show ourselves.”

A flash of red caught his eye, and he glanced up to see his pennant waving in the wind. It was quite a beautiful flag, he thought, and simple. A gold circle on a dark red field. A circle for unity, for eternity, for strength. And red for blood, of course, and maybe courage. It seemed to him then to be a potent symbol, and wondered if anyone else saw it that way. Would his enemies recognize it for what it was, and what it represented? Would they see that pennant and know that Lynan Rosetheme rode under it?

He looked around, saw the Red Hands determinedly looking forward, proud of their distinction among their own people, with Makon at their head and never far from Lynan’s side. He saw Kumul ahead and to the left, leading his lancers who tried so hard to ride in proper column; in the last few days they had actually started to get it right, and it was strange to see a forest of lances sticking up into the sky above the Oceans of Grass. He saw Ager leading the warriors of his own clan, and also saw how the Ocean warriors kept an eye on the crookback, so proud to have him for their chief. He saw Jenrosa riding among a swarm of fellow magickers, all asking her questions, and also saw how frustrated she was that it was not her asking the questions, and afraid of what she might be becoming—a feeling Lynan understood so well himself. And he saw Korigan, the noble queen, the golden queen with the golden eyes, and wondered what it was he felt toward her; he recognized respect, and he recognized desire, which made him feel ashamed because he did not recognize love as well. Perhaps with time, he told himself. And he saw all around him the rolling tide of the Chett army, riding into a future never predicted for them but eager to discover what it held.

Igelko found Terin north of the Ox Tongue, keen to be off. “Rendle is stopping for the night. His riders are very tired, especially the Haxus regulars.”

Terin nodded. “Well, they’ll have their reward soon. Maybe tomorrow.” He looked down at the ground. “Look at this grass, Igelko. Have you ever seen such rich spring pasture?”

Igelko shook his head. “Certainly not in our territory. It explains why we have a thousand cattle and the White Wolf clan has four thousand.”

“Indeed. It is good to be allied with such a clan.”

“Certainly better than being their enemy. It is interesting; watching the enemy riders, I saw none of them take the time to actually look around and see the land itself. Not one of them understands what it means to ride on the Oceans of Grass.”

“They will learn,” Terin said grimly.

It had been hard for Gudon to keep the reserve of strength he knew he was going to need. He had to block away the pain of his bruises, his slit ear, and the broken cheek bone and cracked rib. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even, on closing his eyes and relying on his other senses, particularly his sense of smell. In fact, it was his hearing that told him he was close to where Lynan wanted Prado to be: the horses were making less sound, which meant the grass under hoof was greener, more supple. Then, almost immediately, he could smell the scent of crushed spring grass as well.

He opened his eyes. Prado’s force was moving into the narrowing valley that marked the entrance to the Ox Tongue. The sun was down and the air was getting cooler. Prado called a halt and came along side Gudon.

“Well, my little barge pilot?”

“We are very close. Maybe another day’s ride.”

“Which way?”

“I will guide you.”

Prado grunted and grabbed Gudon’s jaw. Gudon could not help his cry of pain and was ashamed of it. “You could just say—‘Ride north’ or ‘Ride east.’ Then you could rest.”

“I will guide you,” Gudon said around Prado’s hand with some difficulty.

“I could find it by myself if I am within a day’s ride.”

“And Korigan could find you,” Gudon countered.

“She is still weeks away.” Prado released the Chett with a sneer. “Tomorrow, then.” He turned to his captains. “We camp here. I want sentries doubled tonight, two hundred paces from the nearest fires.”

One of the sentries disturbed Rendle’s rest. “Campfires! Campfires to the south!”

Rendle tugged on pants and rushed out of his tent, following the sentry to a knoll some three hundred paces from the camp. There, in the far distance, he could see the night sky shimmering slightly.

“We have them at last,” he said, and grinned. “I had begun to think we would never catch them.” He thought furiously, then slapped his thigh. “We cannot risk losing them again.”

He strode back into camp, shouting for all to arise. He would march them through the night and surprise the enemy just as dawn touched the sky.

* * *

Gudon waited until two hours before sunrise. He stood up carefully, quietly. His guard, sitting ten paces from him, was dozing quietly, his chin on his chest, just as he had for the last five nights. Gudon tugged gently, insistently, on the stake to which he was tethered, stopping whenever the guard snored or snuffled. At last it came free, and he was able to slip his bonds over its end and then use his teeth to loosen them from his wrists. He crept up to the guard and with one swift movement put one hand over the man’s mouth and with the other took the guard’s own knife and slipped it between his ribs. The guard jerked once, then slumped. Gudon laid him out gently, took his sword as well, and started to make his way out of Prado’s camp, trying not to wince as his cracked rib dug into his side.

He had watched where the sentries were posted and knew he would have to take care of one of them. This was the difficult part. The sentries were relieved on the hour, so they were always fresh. He found a hollow and waited for the next turnaround, afraid that the dead guard would be discovered at any moment and the alarm raised. At last he saw a man coming his way, yawning and stretching his arms. He wore a simple cloak over his riding breeches and shirt, had a pot helmet on his head and carried a spear. Gudon waited until he had passed, then crept up behind him and killed him the same way he had killed the guard. He brought the body back to the hollow, took the helmet, cloak and spear, and took his place. Five minutes later he was approaching the sentry.

“What happened to Garulth?” the sentry asked.

“I lost a bet to him,” Gudon said gruffly. “I have his watch tonight.”

The sentry was not convinced. “You know what Freyma says about the roster. It cannot be changed. Who are you?”

Gudon swore silently and changed the grip on the spear so he could throw it, but even as he did so knew it was too late. The sentry had his own spear held out and was half-crouching, only a breath away from calling out to the camp.

The sentry stiffened suddenly, seemed to teeter for a moment, then fell forward onto his face. Gudon could only barely see the outline of an arrow sticking from his back. Relief flooded him, and he ran forward as fast he could with his injuries, throwing away the helmet and spear. He had gone fifty paces when two figures sprang out of the darkness, one of them hissing his name. He stopped, turned, and saw a Chett woman.

“I’ll bet my mother’s fortune you have a red hand,” he said quietly, and although he could see no color, she obligingly held up her hand so it was silhouetted against the paling sky.

Prado learned three things within minutes of each other. He learned the first when he heard a cry from within the camp that the barge pilot’s guard had been slain, and that the barge pilot himself had escaped. Before he could investigate, he learned the second when one of the sentries in the west called out that he had discovered the bodies of two of his fellows, and that one of them had been killed by a black Chett arrow. This time he managed to reach the scene of the deaths before he learned the third: sentries in the north calling out what they could feel through their feet: the approach of many, many riders.

Freyma and Sal rushed up to him, their expressions grim. Prado could see fear in their eyes, but they were professionals and would not panic. “Set our archers in front, their line placed one hundred paces north of our camp,” he snapped to them. “Put our recruits directly behind them. Veterans on the flanks except for a small reserve that will stay with me behind the recruits.”

His two captains nodded and ran off to carry out his instructions. All around him men still stirring from sleep were beginning to feel that something had gone terribly wrong. They looked at Prado, saw him striding by purposefully but without hurry, and felt reassured. He reached his own tent, hurriedly finished dressing, left the tent, and got on his horse being held for him by a nervous-looking recruit. Prado patted the boy on the shoulder, then stayed where he was, making sure everyone knew he was there and was not afraid.

The veteran mercenaries grouped themselves without much fuss, but Freyma and Sal had more trouble settling down the recruits and organizing them into two companies behind the archers; their mounts could feel their owners’ fear and were stamping and nipping at their neighbors. Prado wished he had had the time he needed to give them some training in Hume, but the threat of invasion from Haxus had forestalled that. The archers themselves were quite green, but supremely confident of their ability with bow and arrow. In front of their line they planted sharpened stakes they had carried with them all the way from the Arran Valley, then they strung their bows, carefully checked the flights of their arrows—placing each of them point first in the ground near their right or left hand, depending on which they used to draw the bow—and finally tested the wind with licked fingers and tufts of grass thrown into the air. The steady professionalism of the archers helped settle down the recruits behind, which in turn helped them settle their horses.

When all that could be done was done, the mercenaries waited. Some fidgeted, some slumped in their saddles and closed their eyes to pray to their god, some checked and then rechecked their weapons and—if they had them—the straps on their shields and helmets. Most just sat in their saddles or stood straight, gazing as far as they could into the distance for the first sign of the enemy.

Freyma and Sal reported to Prado for their final instructions. “Freyma, you stay with the recruits. Keep them together. When the enemy is within fifty paces, make sure they let the archers come through. If the Chetts dismount to get through the stakes, dismount the recruits and counterattack, but make sure they do not pursue the Chetts if they break and flee. Sal, stay on the right wing. Wait to see if the Chetts are trying a flank attack. If they are, keep the attack away from the center. If not, wait until the enemy’s first assault has wavered, then move out, taking them from the rear. Drive them onto the stakes if you can. Put Lieutenant Owel in charge of the left wing. She is to copy you, and not to act independently unless I give her an order in person. Any questions so far?”

Freyma and Sal shook their heads.

“If I think the Chetts are retreating from the battle, I will give the order for a general advance. If that happens, stay in sight of each other, then break off the pursuit at midday and return promptly to this camp. Good luck.”

His captains saluted and left. Prado breathed deeply, wondering if there was anything else he should do or take care of, but without knowing who was attacking or in what strength, his choices were limited. Still, he had some idea. Korigan’s clan had been close, and the barge pilot had led them here knowing that. He had heard stories about the White Wolf clan and knew it was one of the larger ones, but his two-and-a-half thousand mercenaries, mostly veterans, would be able to handle them. The important thing to remember was not to break the line and chase the Chetts if they looked like retreating—as often as not it was a Chett ruse to lure their enemies out of formation. Prado knew the Chetts well enough to know when they really panicked and started to flee.

The outer sentries appeared, running as fast as their legs could carry them. “Half a league!” they called. “Half a league!” One of them came straight to Prado and breathlessly said: “Three thousand! Maybe more!”

Prado nodded. That sounded about right for one of the larger clans, and even allowed for another thousand left behind to protect the herd or sent on a long flanking maneuver; he would have to be wary of the last.

“Haxus cavalry,” the sentry said then.

Prado looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“Haxus cavalry ... uniforms ... Haxus pennants ...”

“Three thousand Haxus cavalry here ?” He could not believe what he was hearing.

“Yes, but many in no uniform... not Chetts.” Prado waved off the sentry, who scurried away, and stared northward disbelievingly. He could not see the enemy yet, but he could hear them.

Prado knew instinctively who it was. Three thousand or more, most Haxus, but some not in any uniform. Mercenaries. Rendle. There was a moment, the briefest of .moments, when he knew everything had gone wrong, but then realized he was in the perfect position. Rendle could not possibly know he was not attacking Chetts. In fact, he was almost certainly on the Oceans of Grass for the same reason as Prado— to secure Lynan. Maybe Rendle even thought Prado’s force was the White Wolf clan and that he would find Lynan here.

And if he thinks he is attacking Chetts, he will drive straight up the center, hoping to scatter us, Prado thought. And he will have another column out wide to drive in one flank. But which one?

Rendle always did things a little differently, Prado remembered. Nothing revolutionary, just unconventional. Rendle’s flying column would be sent from his left wing. That meant it would come in on Prado’s right flank. How much time did he have?

He called over one of his veterans. “You will find Captain Solway with the right wing,” he told him. “Tell her that the enemy is not the Chetts, but Rendle. Tell her to move out wide and ambush a flank attack Rendle will be sending against our right.”

The veteran spurred his horse and galloped away. Prado heard sounds from the front and looked up. There, in the distance, a straight line of cavalry. Little dust. It was too far to be sure, but the enemy were riding close together, too close for Chetts.

“Rendle,” Prado said quietly, smiling slightly. “I knew we would meet again.”

Rendle knew he was close to the time when he would lose control over the attack. His cavalry was advancing at a steady canter, the line mostly holding, but he could now see the enemy ahead. He was worried they were not panicking. He was worried they seemed to be dressed in formations far too tight for Chetts. But there weren’t many, and he had another thousand riders behind the line of hills on his left moving to hit the enemy in the flank at the same time he hit them in the front.

A thousand paces. He swung his sword over his head. Just as he brought the sword down to point it straight at the enemy, just as he spurred his horse from a canter into a gallop, just at the moment he finally lost control of the assault, he saw the foot archers.

On receiving Prado’s surprising instructions, Sal had formed her cavalry into a wedge and galloped it east for three hundred paces and then turned them north. As they surmounted a small rise, they saw before them at least a thousand cavalry running in front of them, the heads of their mounts starting to droop, and she cried in surprised delight. She did not need to give any command—her whole force shouted with her and charged.

* * *

Prado had half expected the enemy to wheel to either side of his front line, risking their horses on the slopes on either side of the valley to enfilade him, but when he saw them break into a gallop, he knew they had left it too late for anything fancy. His archers loosed their first salvo. The arrows whistled as they rose and then fell about midway among the charging cavalry. Horses and men fell to the ground, tripping those behind them. A few seconds later the second volley fell, and the enemy ranks started to peel away, the formation losing cohesion. A third volley, and this time Prado could see individual arrows striking riders in the head and chest and thighs, and horses in the neck and shoulders. He could see some riderless horses canter and buck from the fray with arrows sticking from their haunches.

The Arran archers picked up their unused shafts and retreated. For the most part they got through, but some of the younger recruits could not control their mounts properly and one or two of the infantry were trampled. The enemy charge reached the stakes. Horses reared, throwing their riders, some of whom ended up skewered, most of whom ended up in heaps on the ground—dazed, broken, or dead. The following ranks of enemy cavalry split, some going left, some right, most trying to retreat. Many riders jumped off, drawing their swords and advancing through the stakes, chopping at them, forcing their way through, desperate to actually land a blow on an opponent. Freyma ordered the first rank of recruits to dismount and counterattack. A confusing melee started just behind the line of stakes, swinging one way and then the next. As more of the enemy got through the stakes, the line was pushed closer and closer to Freyma’s position. Rather than send more of his recruits in, Freyma ordered his rear ranks to ride between those fighting on foot and the stakes. They hewed into the enemy from behind, mercilessly cutting them down.

Prado meanwhile was searching for Rendle, finally catching sight of him on the left flank, leading the battle between his mercenaries and Haxus regulars against Owel’s troops. Owel had not had time to charge, and the impact of Rendle’s assault had forced back her formation. Prado checked one more time to make sure Freyma had things under control in the center, then raised his sword and spurred his horse into a canter. His veterans formed a line on his left. As soon as it was straight, he lowered his sword and they charged, hitting the enemy just as Owel’s force was on the verge of fleeing.

Prado swung at any head that came within reach, but concentrated on bringing his line right behind Rendle’s force. He saw Rendle realize what was happening and trying to wheel his cavalry around to meet the new threat. Prado screamed his name, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and charged again.

Even though Sal’s force was outnumbered two to one, the charge of her troops had sent the enemy reeling in shock. In a few minutes they had cut down a quarter of them and divided their force in two. The rear half turned and fled the field while the vanguard, knowing they had no hope of regaining the initiative here, spurred their horses to even greater effort and desperately tried to reach the main battle in the hope they could find reinforcements. Sal quickly ordered a company to chase the fleeing riders to make sure they did not double back and take her force in the rear, then reformed her line and pursued the vanguard.

They had almost caught the enemy’s tail when both groups burst into the valley. There were dead horses and riders everywhere. Sal quickly saw the battle had developed into two main struggles—one on the far flank and one in the center. The enemy she was chasing saw that the only hope they had was to get involved in one of the larger actions, and charged straight into the flank of the recruits in the center.

The recruits, who had just gained the upper hand, fell back in confusion. Freyma desperately tried to steady the line, but there were too many gaps. The archers tried to flee, but many were cut down.

Then Sal struck the enemy’s rear and the battle broke up into skirmishes between four or five combatants and in some places individual contests. Freyma gathered together all the recruits he could and formed a new line just in front of their camp. The surviving archers, seeing what he was trying to do, formed up behind him. Sal saw as well and started calling her own riders back. The enemy was exhausted and their horses blown; their leader tried to get them to form a line as well, but they were too slow. Arrows started falling among them, scattered and largely ineffective but demoralizing nonetheless, and they started to pull back through the stakes to safer ground, and there they were rejoined by their comrades retreating from the battle on the left flank. They knew they had lost, but they also knew their opponents were too tired to pursue. Some among them were crying for another charge, but they were shouted down; for most of them, it was clear that the battle was over.

All the pain, all the planning, all the waiting, were made worthwhile when Prado saw that Rendle recognized him. The man turned whiter than a sheet, cursed Prado, and charged toward him.

It seemed as if all the fighters there knew to avoid this contest and peeled away. The two leaders met at full gallop. The flank of Rendle’s horse crashed into the head of Prado’s mount, but even as his horse went down, Prado felt his sword strike flesh. He landed heavily, somersaulted, and staggered back to his feet. His horse lay on the ground, its neck broken. Rendle wheeled his horse around and charged again, raising his sword high. Prado stood his ground and blocked his enemy’s slashing attack. As Rendle barged past, Prado grabbed hold of his jerkin and pulled down savagely. Rendle shouted as he lost his balance, his torso twisting back over his horse’s hindquarters, and used his thighs and knees to remain mounted. Prado saw his chance and swiped savagely with his sword. His blade sliced into his enemy’s neck. Rendle gasped, coughing blood; his horse reared and bolted, the sudden action forcing Prado’s blade deeper. Rendle’s head jumped off his neck, and his horse galloped on, its decapitated rider slowly sliding off the saddle; one foot caught in the stirrup and the torso bumped along the ground as it was carried away.

Prado heard a groan, and realized it came from his own lips. He looked down and saw a deep slash in his right thigh, blood oozing over his breeches. He looked up again and saw Rendle’s head not far from him. He stumbled over to it and used his sword to impale it through the neck. He raised the grisly trophy over his head and waved it in the air, shouting his victory for everyone to hear.

First, it was only the enemy riders nearby that cried in despair and fled, but it was enough. In a few minutes the slopes were occupied only by Prado’s troops. They watched as the enemy gathered and milled about two hundred paces north of the stakes, unsure of what to do, wary of any pursuit, but Prado knew his own side was too exhausted to follow. Some of the enemy turned their horses and kicked them into a slow trot, and soon the rest of them were following.

Freyma rode up. “Shall we start the chase?”

“Have we any fresh horses?”

Freyma shook his head.

“Our casualties?”

“Moderate. Maybe four hundred dead, twice that many wounded. I figure two thousand of the enemy are dead or wounded here. Sal says there are at least three hundred of them dead on the other side of the hills to the east.”

“Kill any of their wounded left behind.”

Freyma left to carry out the order, and Prado looked to the retreating enemy again. They were now half a league away. He counted a thousand or so, many of them slumped over their saddles. They were leaderless and at least two weeks from sanctuary; many of them would not see their homes again.

He searched among his own troops. They were worn out, but he still had enough to carry out his first mission. He raised his sword again, peered at Rendle’s bloody face and grinned at it. “I was just going to cut your throat, you bastard.” He laughed crazily.

And now for Lynan, he thought.

That was when he heard the screams of dying men in the distance. His first thought was that some of Sal’s riders had come late on the field and pursued the retreating enemy after all. He looked up and what he saw did not make any sense. The enemy were riding as hard as they could, but toward Prado and his troops!

“God’s death, what’s happen—”

“Prado!”

He spun around to his left and looked up the slope. There, standing as free as you please, and grinning from ear to ear, was the blasted barge pilot.

“You sent me into a trap!” Prado shouted at him. He shook Rendle’s head at him. “And see what has come of it!”

“That was not my trap, master!” the Chett replied. He spread his arms wide. “This is my trap!”

And suddenly the barge pilot was no longer alone. It seemed as if the skyline itself was changing shape, turning into a line of cavalry that stretched along the whole length of the valley.

“My God,” Prado whispered hoarsely.

Kumul gazed out over the battlefield and shook his head. “It is a day of wonder when the mercenaries do our work for us.” He glanced sideways at Lynan. “Your father would be very proud of you, lad. I was wrong—again.”

Lynan smiled at Kumul and reached out to grip his shoulder. “You taught better than you knew.”

Kumul shook his head. “No. I never taught you this well.”

“Excuse me,” Korigan interrupted impatiently. “But can we kill them now?”

Kumul laughed. “My lancers first.”

Korigan bristled. “I am a queen! It is my right to lead my people into battle!” she declared.

For a second they tried to stare each other down, then a plaintive voice said, “I am without a horse.”

Lynan dismounted and held out the reins to Gudon. “My friend, would you do me the honor of leading the first charge of my army?”

Gudon stared wide-eyed at Lynan, and the prince had to place the reins into his hands.

Korigan and Kumul looked at Lynan, then at Gudon, and then at each other again. “It is fitting,” Korigan said.

“Yes,” Kumul agreed. He turned to one of the Red Hands, nodded to his horse. The Chett dismounted and quickly brought his horse up to Lynan, who thanked him and mounted. The Red Hand hurried away to find another ride; he certainly was not going to miss out on the battle.

“Your orders?” Lynan asked Gudon, now astride Lynan’s horse.

Gudon, still in considerable pain, grimaced. Below them, Prado had hurriedly formed his lines, but his troops were obviously exhausted and frightened; they thought they had won a great battle and instead had only made their own deaths more certain. He remembered the terrible atrocities and crimes they had committed against his people in the past and hardened his heart.

“Kill them all,” he said. “Kill them all except Prado.”

* * *

“I don’t recognize the pennant,” Freyma said, pointing to the blood-red flag with its golden circle. “It’s not the Sun clan, is it?”

Prado shook his head. “No. This is not their territory.” He knew what it meant, but did not want to tell the others. In a strange way, the implication terrified him even more than his own imminent death. He saw the whole of the continent of Theare falling into a maelstrom of violence and death. The Chetts were organized, and they were marching east. The pennant waving atop the western slope promised years, maybe decades, of constant, bloody war. Even mercenaries needed some years of peace to enjoy their spoils.

“I should have stayed on my farm,” Freyma said, but there was no self-pity in his voice. He said it as a statement of fact.

“We all should have stayed on our farms,” Prado replied. “Even them,” he added, nodding to the survivors of Rendle’s army who had joined his force in common defense. He could hear some of his recruits starting to sob, and surprised himself by feeling sorry for them. He wished suddenly that he had taken the time to have children. Well, he admitted to himself, children I knew about.

“Here they come,” Freyma said.

There was no shout or cry. The Chett cavalry eased over the slope, ambled their way to level ground.

“They have lancers,” Freyma observed. “That’s a surprise.”

“Do you see who leads them?”

“That’s Kumul fucking Alarn, isn’t it?” Now there was surprise in Freyma’s voice.

“I see our barge pilot is calling the shots.”

“Imagine him making king.”

“Imagine,” Prado said tonelessly.

The Chett cavalry took a moment to straighten their line. They were no more than two hundred paces away. Prado ordered the archers to shoot. A dismal shower of arrows whistled overhead and fell among the enemy. Most stuck in the ground, one or two found flesh and eyes. Another flight, with similar results.

“Now,” Prado said under his breath, and even as he said the word, the Chetts started their charge. He never thought he would see the day when the Chetts would keep close order, although it was only the lancers. The horse archers were already spreading apart and moving around his force’s flanks. The lancers went from a walk to a canter to a gallop so smoothly he could not help admire it.

“Good-bye, Freyma,” Prado said.

“Good-bye, J—”

An arrow seemed to sprout from Freyma’s left temple. He fell out of his saddle. Another arrow claimed Freyma’s horse. Someone moved into the gap.

“Charge!” Prado cried, and his own thin line started its countercharge. Armed mainly with swords, they knew most of them would be skewered before they had a chance to come to grips with the Chetts, but also knew that if they tried to flee they would only be skewered from behind.

Prado kneed his horse until he was almost in front. He aimed his sword at the barge pilot’s head, promising himself to take out the little bastard before he died. The rider charging beside Gudon caught his attention; he was as pale as mist and as small as the pilot, and he had a scar ...

No, it couldn’t be!

Lynan focused on one enemy, a rider with a helmet and a long sword, and for the whole charge kept his sword point aimed at that man’s chest. Seconds before they would have collided, his target was taken by a lance and disappeared from view. Lynan swerved to his left, half saw a sword slashing toward him and deflected it easily. His horse veered to avoid a biting stallion and lost its momentum. Lynan wheeled around, searching for the nearest enemy. A young man, no older than he, rode into view, swinging a sword with more energy than skill. Lynan dodged the first blow and drove the point of his own sword into the man’s neck. He did not wait to see the results. He spurred his mare into a canter and attacked one of two riders ganging up on a wounded Red Hand. He dispatched the first by stabbing him in the back. The second twisted aside to counter the new threat, and the Red Hand took off most of his face with a slashing cut. More enemies joined the fray, and Lynan found himself in a confusing tumble of men and horses. A Red Hand died in front of him, a dagger in her heart. A wizened mercenary coughed blood, disappeared. A man in the uniform of Haxus was huddled in his saddle with his hands closed over his head, screaming something; Lynan sank his sword into the man’s stomach and the screaming stopped. He saw a sword coming toward him out of the corner of his eye and quickly brought his own weapon up to block it; he deflected the killing stroke, but the flat of the other sword thwacked against the crown of his head. Lynan saw stars, felt himself swoon in his saddle. Someone nearby screamed. Hands plucked at him, trying to keep him upright.

And then his senses cleared so quickly it felt as if someone else was suddenly occupying his body. Red Hands were all around him, protecting him at the expense of their own defense.

“Enough,” he said, and kicked his heels into his mare’s flank. She leaped forward. Lynan saw a huge mercenary loom in front of him, carrying a long saber in one hand and a spiked mace in the other. He grinned at Lynan, raised his sword, and slashed downward. Lynan blocked the blow and used his own sword to flick it away. The saber flew out of the mercenary’s hands. The impetus of his charge took Lynan past the man, but he swung his sword backward and caught the man in the neck. He twisted his sword free and spurred his horse again into the fray, breaking through the enemy line. He was surrounded by mercenaries. His sword whistled as he thrashed left and right, not aiming at any one target. He kept on moving, plowing through any opposition, not able to control the white fury that had taken over his mind and body. One moment he was surrounded by screaming men, panting horses and the almost overwhelming smell of blood and shit, and then he was in the clear.

There was a line of foot archers in front of Lynan, desperately loosing arrows at the Chett horse archers picking at them from both flanks. They did not see Lynan. He charged into them, hewing at heads and arms. The archers scattered, crying in fear, and Lynan rode them down until once again he found himself in the melee and surrounded by the press of fighting and dying men and horses.

He attacked a rider in the uniform of a Haxus officer, someone not much older than a boy. The officer tried desperately to ward off Lynan’s attack, and he started to cry. “Please . . .” he whimpered, blocking another thrust. “Please...” But Lynan only smiled at him and attacked again, his sword slicing through the officer’s wrist, then onto into his thigh. The officer wailed as Lynan plunged his sword into his chest, then gurgled and died.

Lynan roared, driving his horse on. Three more enemies. They saw him coming and split to take him from the front and both sides at the same time. Lynan slashed at the one on his right, his sword sinking deep into the man’s skull. Something stuck in his waist, and he looked down to see a dagger there, half its length inside of him. He let go of the reins and punched the mercenary on his left in the face. The face crumpled and the mercenary fell back. The mercenary in front gaped in horror and tried to back his horse away. Lynan pulled the dagger out of his side, saw a trickle of dark, dark blood run down his shirt, then threw the weapon at the retreating mercenary, striking him between the eyes.

He wheeled his horse in a tight circle, searching for another enemy, but there was no one left to kill. There were no more mercenaries, no more riders in Haxus uniform, no more archers. A troop of his Red Hands galloped up to him, crying his name, their desperate concern obvious on their faces.

“I am all right,” he assured them, then remembered he had been stabbed. He looked down at the wound, but although he found the flat, diamond-shaped cut in his shirt, there was only the faintest mark on the skin underneath.

Prado received a second wound that day, a hard blow to the back of his right hand. The barge pilot had done that. Prado had been surprised the little Chett could fight at all, let alone outfight someone like himself, a mercenary with a quarter century of combat behind him. As soon as they met, Prado had swung for his head, but the Chett had ducked as lithely as a young boy and brought down the hilt of his own sword on Prado’s hand, breaking a few bones and forcing him to let go of his weapon. After that things had become confusing. He remembered being knocked off his horse, two men with red hands falling on him and tying him up. He lost consciousness for a while, and when he woke, the battle was over. The barge pilot had reappeared, made him stand up, and forced him to look over the battlefield.

“We’ve counted them,” the barge pilot told him. “We have removed our eighty dead and already burned them. That is their pyre over there. All the other bodies you see are those of our enemy. Nearly six thousand of them. You are the only survivor.” The Chett leaned closer so he could whisper in Prado’s ear. “But not for long.”

Prado was turned around again. There were five figures approaching. He recognized Kumul and Ager and Jenrosa and—he still could not believe the change—Prince Lynan, but the fifth was a tall Chett female he knew nothing about.

When they were near enough, the barge pilot bowed deeply. “Your Majesty.”

Lynan smiled. “Well done, Gudon. How do you feel?”

The Chett called Gudon breathed deeply and joined his companions. “Rejuvenated,” he said.

“What now?” the Chett female asked the prince. “How do you want him to die?”

“Gudon?”

“I have finished with him, little master. He knows I am the one who brought him down. It is enough.”

The prince stood directly in front of Prado. The mercenary could not meet the eyes in that pale face and had to turn away. Fear curdled in the pit of his stomach, fear of something much worse than death. Lynan turned to Kumul. “When we were finally reunited in the Strangers’ Sooq, I remember you said something about Jes Prado.”

“I said I would fillet the bastard,” Kumul returned.

Prado went white. He had expected to be paraded before the victors and then beheaded. But not...

“He is yours,” the prince said. “But when you are finished, make sure his face is still recognizable.”

It took the rest of the day and the whole of the next to gather all the enemy dead together and burn their remains. An expedition was sent to Rendle’s distant camp to take care of any guards left behind and to bring back all the booty they could find. They returned with horses, weapons, and the news that on sighting them one of the guards—a Haxus regular—had released several carrier birds, all of which had escaped.

Together, the two mercenary forces delivered a great deal of potentially useful booty; horses mainly, but also weapons, stocks of food, including some hay for the horses, and good clothing, including new leather boots and jerkins. Everything was loaded onto most of their surviving mounts, and a few of the less seriously wounded Chetts were charged with escorting them back to the High Sooq for distribution among all the clans; all except some of the stallions which Kumul insisted on keeping.

“Our mares do not make good chargers,” he told his companions. Lynan and Korigan smiled at each other. “What’s so funny?”

“You said ‘Our mares,’” Lynan explained.

Kumul grunted. “With these bigger eastern stallions we can start breeding a proper war horse.”

“We will take your advice on this,” Korigan said, and Kumul bowed slightly for the favor she was showing him.

“What did you want with Prado’s head, lad?” Kumul asked Lynan.

“Did we find Rendle’s remains?”

“Yes, on the slope,” Korigan answered. “His head was already off his shoulders. It got trampled on, but it is recognizable.”

“Good. Put both heads in a basket. Fill the basket with salt and bring it to me.”

“Very well,” Korigan said, her voice flat, and gave the order.

Early the next morning the basket was presented to him. He opened it and placed in it the Key of the Union. Those around him gasped in surprise.

“What are you doing?” Ager asked.

Lynan called for Makon, who appeared moments later, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty?”

“In Gudon’s absence you performed well as leader of my Red Hands.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

“I have another important task for you. You must not fail in it. You may take a company of the Red Hands to help make sure you are not interfered with.”

“What is the task, my lord?”

Lynan showed Makon the contents of the basket. “You are to take this to Eynon, chief of the Horse clan.”

Makon could not hide his surprise. “To Eynon? Including the Key of the Union?”

“You are to tell Eynon that the heads are those of the mercenary captains Prado and Rendle, and are a present to him from Lynan Rosetheme, the White Wolf returned. And as a symbol of my trust in him, I also send the Key of the Union, so that he may find me to return it.”

No one said anything as Makon sealed the basket and tied it with sinew. “I will leave immediately.”

When Makon was gone, Lynan looked at the faces of Korigan and Kumul, expecting the greatest outrage from them, but both seemed calm.

“Neither of you have any objection?”

Kumul shook his head. “I do not doubt you know what you are doing,” the giant said.

“And I admire the strategy behind the move, your Majesty,” Korigan said. “You play this game of kingship very well indeed.”

“Ah,” Lynan said quietly, “that’s because I do not think it is a game.”