Oathbreaker

Three

Kethry shifted her weight over her mount's shoulders, half-standing in her stirrups to ease Hellsbane's balance as the mare scrambled up the treacherous shale of another slope. They were slightly more than halfway across the hills; it was cold and damp and the lowering gray clouds looked close enough to touch, but at least it wasn't raining again. She wasn't too cold; under her wool cloak she wore her woolen sorceress' robe, the unornamented buff color showing her school was White Winds, and under thaty woolen breeches, woolen leggings, and the leather armor Tarma had insisted she don. The only time she was uncomfortable was when the wind cut in behind the hood of the robe.

She was a member of the last party to leave the camp and make the crossing; they'd left their wounded to the care of Leamount's hillclansmen and his own personal Healer. Tresti, the Healer-Priest, had been in the second party to slip away from the camp, riding by the side of her beloved Sewen. Oreden and Jiles, the two hedge-mages, had gone two groups later; The herbalist Kethaire and his two young apprentices had left next. Kethry had stayed to the very last, her superior abilities at sensing mage-probes making her the logical choice to deflect any attempts at spying until the full exchange of personnel was complete.

She felt a little at a loss without her partner riding at her left. Tarma had preceded her more than half a day ago, leaving before midnight, as the guide with Idra and the first group. Of all the party that had made the first crossing, only Jodi had remained to ride with the tailguard group.

Jodi was somewhere behind them, checking on the backtrail. That was not as comforting to Kethry as it should have been. Kethry knew her fears were groundless, that the frail appearance of the scout belied a tough interior -- but --

As if the thought had summoned her, a gray shadow slipped up upon Kethry's right, with so little noise it might have been a shadow in truth. Hellsbane had been joined by a second gray mare so similar in appearance that only an expert could have told that one was a Shin'a'in full-blood battle-steed and the other was not.

That lack of sound was one clue -- there was mountain-pony in Lightfoot's background, somewhere. Jodi's beast moved as silently as a wild goat on this shifting surface, so quietly that the scout and her mount raised the hackles on anyone who didn't know them.

Jodi wore her habitual garb of gray leather; with her pale hair and pale eyes and ghost-gray horse, she looked unnervingly like an apparition of Lady Death herself, or some mist-spirit conjured out of the patches of fog that shrouded these hills, as fragile and insubstantial as a thing of shadow and air; and once again Kethry had a twinge of misgiving.

"Any sign of probing?" the scout asked in a neutral voice.

Kethry shook her head. "None. I think we may have gotten away with it."

Jodi sighed. "Don't count your coins before they're in the coffer. There's a reason why we are running tail, lady, and it's not just to do with magery, though that's a good share of it."

The scout cast a doubtful look at Kethry -- and for the first time Kethry realized that the woman had serious qualms about her abilities to handle this mission, if it came to something other than a simple trek on treacherous ground.

Kethry didn't bother to hide an ironic grin.

Jodi noted it, and cocked her head to one side, moving easily with her horse. Her saddle was hardly more than a light pad of leather; it didn't even creak when she shifted, unconsciously echoing the movements of her mare. "Something funny, lady?"

"Very. I think we've been thinking exactly the same things-about each other."

Jodi's answering slow grin proved that Kethry hadn't been wrong. "Ha. And we should know better, shouldn't we? It's a pity we didn't know each other well enough to trust without thinking and worrying-especially since neither of us look like fighters. But we should have figured that Idra knows what she's doing; neither of us are hothouse plants -- or we wouldn't be Hawks."

"Exactly. So -- give me the reasons this particular lot is riding tail; maybe I can do something about preventing a problem."

"Right enough -- one -- " The scout freed her right hand from the reins to hold up a solemn finger. " -- is the trail. Shale shifts, cracks. We're riding after all the rest, and we'll be making the last few furlongs in early evening gloom. This path has been getting some hard usage, more than it usually gets. If the trail is likely to give, it'll give under us. You'll notice we're all of us the best riders, and the ones with the best horses in the Hawks."

Kethry considered this, as Hellsbane topped the hill and picked her cautious way down the sloping trail. "Hmm-hmm. All right, can we halt at the next ridge? There's a very tiny bit of magery I can work that might help us out with that."

Jodi pursed her lips. "'Ts that wise?"

Kethry nodded, slowly. "It's a very low-level piece of earth-witchery; something even a shepherd wise-woman might well know. I don't think any of Kelcrag's mages is likely to take note of it -- assuming they can even see it, and I doubt they will. It's witchery, not sorcery, and Kelcrag's magickers are all courtly mages, greater and lesser. My school is more eclectic; we use whatever comes to hand, and that can be damned useful -- somebody looking for High Magick probably won't see Low, or think it's worth investigating. After all, what does Kelcrag need to fear from a peasant granny?"

Jodi considered that for a moment, her head held slightly to one side. "Tell me, why is it that jiles and Oreden have gotten so much better since you've been with us?"

Kethry chuckled, but it was with a hint of sadness. It had been very hard to convince the hedge-wizards that their abilities did not match their dreams. "You want the truth? Their talents are all in line with Low Magick; earth-witchery, that sort of thing. I convinced them that there's nothing wrong with that, asked them which they'd rather ride, a good, steady trail-horse or your fire-eater. They aren't stupid; they saw right away what I was getting at." She set Hellsbane at the next slope, her hooves dislodging bits of shale and sending them clattering down behind them. "So now that they aren't trying to master spells they haven't the Talent to use properly, they're doing fine. Frankly, I would rather have them with us than two of those courtly mages. Water-finding is a lot more use than calling lightning, and the fire-making spell does us more good than the ability to light up a ballroom."

"You won't catch me arguing. So what's this magic of yours going to do?"

"Show me the weak spots in the trail. If there's something ready to give, I'll know about it before it goes."

"And?"

"I should be able to invoke a greater magic at that point, and hold the pieces together long enough for us to get across."

"Won't that draw attention?"

"It would," Kethry replied slowly, "if I did what a court mage would do, and draw on powers outside myself -- which causes ripples; no, I have just enough power of my own, and that's what I'll use. There won't be any stir on the other planes...." But it's going to cost me if I do things that way. Maybe high. Well, I'll handle that when the time conies. "You said one reason we're riding tailmost-that implies there's more reasons."

"Two -- we're tailguards in truth. We could find ourselves fighting hand to hand with Kelcrag's scouts or his mages. They haven't detected us that we know of, but there's no sense in assuming less than the worst."

"So long as they don't outnumber us -- I'm not exactly as helpless in a fight as Tresti." She caught the cloud of uncertainty in Jodi's pale blue eyes, and said, surprised, "I thought everybody knew about this sword of mine."

"There's stories, but frankly, lady -- "

"Keth. I, as Tarma would tell you, am no lady."

That brought a glimmer of smile. "Keth, then. Well, none of US have ever seen that blade do anything but heal."

"Need's better at causing wounds than curing them, at least in my hands," Kethry told her. "That's her gift to me; in a fight, she makes a mage the equal of any Swordswoman born. If it comes to magic, though, she's pretty well useless for my purposes -- it's to a fighter she gives magic immunity. But -- I'll tell you what, I've got a notion. If it comes to battle by magery, I'll try and get her to you before I get involved in a duel arcane; she'll shield you from even a godling's magic. Tarma proved that, once. She may even be able to shield more than one, if you all crowd together."

There was a Hash of interest at that, and a hint of relief. "Then I think I'll worry less about you. Well_there's a reason three that we're riding tail: if we find we've ridden straight into ambush at trail's end, we're the lot that's got the best chance of getting one of us back to tell Leamount."

"Gah. Grim reasons, all of them -- can we stop here for a breath or two?"

They had just topped a ridge, with sufficient space between them and the next in line that a few moments spent halted wouldn't hamper his progress any. Jodi looked about her, grimaced, then nodded with reluctance. "A bit exposed to my mind, but -- "

"This won't take long." Kethry gathered the threads of earth-magic, the subtlest and least detectable of all the mage-energies, and whispered a command along those particular threads that traced their path across the hills. There was an almost imperceptible shift in the energy flows, then the spell settled into place and became invisible even to the one who had set it. The difference was that Kethry was now at one with the path; she felt the path through the hills, from end to end, like a whisper of sand across the surface of her mental "skin." If the path was going to collapse, the backlash would alert her.

"Let's go -- "

"That's all there is to it?" Jodi looked at her askance.

"Magery isn't all lightnings and thunders. The best magery is as subtle as a tripwire, and as hard to detect."

"Well." Jodi sent her mount picking a careful path down the hillside, and looked back at Kethry with an almost-smile. "I think I could get to appreciate magery."

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 tumbling a pemvyhird 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 Genold 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 hill top 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 agree-ment 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 west-ern 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 light-ning 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 en-countered 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 the 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 fore-front 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 or-ders, 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 hun-dred 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 helmet.

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.

"Great good gods! Why is he out here?" she exclaimed, seeing the patient. He was half-propped on a saddle; stretched out before him was his wounded leg. Kethry nearly gagged at the sight of the blood-drenched leg of his breeches, the man-gled muscles, and the tourniquet practically at his groin.

"Looks worse than it is, Keth." Dee didn't even look up. "More torn up than anything; didn't touch the big vein at all. He don't need Tresti, just you and me." His clever hands were busy cutting bits of the man's breeches away, while the mercenary bit his lip until it, too, bled; hoping to keep from crying out.

"What in hell got you, friend?" Kethry asked, kneeling down at the man's side. She had to have his attention, or the spell wouldn't work. The man was white under his sunburn, his black beard matted with dirt and sweat, the pupils of his eyes wide with pain.

"Some-shit!-big wolf. Had m' bow all trained on yer back, m'lady. Bastard come outa nowhere n' took out m'leg. Should'a known better'n t' sight on a Hawk; 'specially since I knew 'bout you havin' that beast."

Kethry started. "Warrl-Windborn, no wonder you look like hacked meat! Let me tell you, you're lucky he didn't go for your throat! I hope you'll forgive me. but I-can't say Fm sorry -- "

The man actually managed a bare hint of smile, and patted her knee with a bloody hand. "That's-gah!-war, m'lady. No offense." He clenched his other hand until the knuckles were white as Dee picked pieces of fabric out of his wounds.

Kethry sighed the three syllables that began the sleep-spell, and felt her hands begin to tingle with the gathering energy. Slow, though -- she was coming to the end of her resources.

"But why did you come to us for help?"

"Don't trust them horse-leeches, they wanted to take the leg off. I knew yer people'd save it. Them damn highborns, they got no notion what 'is leg means to a merc."

Kethry nodded, grimacing. Without his leg, this man would be out of a job -- and likely starve to death.

"And th' Demons' ain't got no Healers nor magickers. Never saw th' need for 'em."

"Oh?" That was the root and branch of Devaril's constant arguments with Idra. "Well, now you know why we have them, don't you?" She still wasn't ready. Not quite yet; the level wasn't high enough. Until she could touch him, she had to keep his attention.

"Yeah, well -- kinda reckon ol' Horserace's right, now. Neat trick y' pulled on us, settin' the camp afire wi' the magickers. An' havin' yer own Healers beats hell outa hopin' yer contract 'members he's supposed to keep ye patched up. Specially when 'e's lost. Reckon we'll be lookin' fer recruits after we get mustered out." He grimaced again, and nodded to her. " T yer innerested, m'lady -- well, th' offer's open. T not, well, pass th' word, eh?"

Kethry was a little amused at the certainty in his words. "You're so high up in the demons, then, that you can speak for them?"

He bit off a curse of pain, and grinned feebly just as she reached for his forehead. "Should say. I'm Devaril."

Kethry was wrung with weariness, and her mage-energies were little more than flickers when Tarma came looking for her. She looked nearly transparent with exhaustion, ready to float away on an errant wind.

The Swordswornan knelt down in the dust beside where Kethry was sitting; she was obviously still trying to muster up energies all but depleted.

"Keth -- "

The mage looked up at her with a face streaked with dried blood -- Thank the Warrior, none of it hers.

"Lady Windborn. I think I hate war."

"Hai," Tarma agreed, grimly. Now that the battle-high had worn off, as always, she was sick and sickened. Such a damned waste-all for the sake of one fool too proud to be ruled by a woman. All that death, men, women, good beasts. Innocent civilians. "Hell of a way to make a living. Can you get loose?"

"If it isn't for magery. I'm tapped out."

"It isn't. Idra wants us in her tent."

Tarma rose stiffly and gave her hand to her part-ner, who frankly needed it to get to her feet. The camp was quiet, the quiet of utter exhaustion. Later would come the drinking bouts, the boasts, the counting of bonuses and loot. Now was just time to hurt, and to heal; to mourn the lost friends and help care for the injured; and to sleep, if one could. With the coming of dusk fires were being kindled, and torches. And, off in the distance, pyres. The Hawks, like most mercenary companies, burned their dead. Tarma had already done her share of funeral duty; she was not particularly unhappy to miss the next immolation.

Two of the Hawks not too flagged to stand watch were acting sentry of Idra's tent. Tarma nodded to both of them, and pushed her way in past the flap, Kethry at her heels.

Idra inclined her head in their direction and in-dicated a pile of blankets with a wave of her hand. Sewen already occupied her cot, and Geoffrey, Ta-mas and Lethra, his sergeants, the equipment chest, the stool, and another pile of blankets respectively. The fourth sergeant, Bevis, was currently sleeping off one of Kethry's spells.

"Where's your kyree'?" the Captain asked, as they lowered themselves down onto the pile.

"Sentry-go. He's about the only one of us fit for it, so he volunteered."

"Bless him. I got him a young pig -- I figured he'd earned it, and I figured he'd like to get the taste of man out of his mouth."

Tarma grinned. "Sounds like he's been hitching at you. Captain, for a pig, he'd stand sentry all bloody night!"

"Have him see the cook when he's hungry." Idra took the remaining stool, lowering herself to it with a grimace of pain. Her horse had been shot out from under her, and she'd taken a fall that left her bruised from breast to ankle.

"Well." She surveyed them all, her most trusted assistants, wearing a troubled look. "I've -- well, I've had some unsettling news. It's nothing to do with the campaign -- " She cut short the obvious question hurriedly. " -- no, in fact Geoffrey is sitting on our mustering-out pay. Leamount's been damned generous, above what he contracted for. No, this is personal. I'm going to have to part company with you for a while."

Tarma felt her jaw go slack; the others stared at their Captain with varying expressions of stunned amazement.

Sewen was the first to recover. "Idra -- what's the hell is that supposed t'mean? Part company? Why?"

Idra sighed, and rubbed her neck with one sun-browned hand. "It's duty, of a sort. You all know where I'm from -- well, my father just died, gods take his soul. He and I never did agree on much, but he had the grace to let me go my own way when it was obvious he'd never keep me hobbled at home except by force. Mother's been dead, oh, twenty-odd years. That means I've got two brothers in line for the throne, since I renounced any claim I had."

"Two?" Kethry was looking a bit more alert now, Tarma noticed. "I thought the law in Rethwellan was primogeniture."

"Sort of. sort of. That's where the problem is. Father favored my younger brother. So do the priests and about half the nobles. The merchants and the rest of the nobles favor following the law. My older brother -- well, he may have the law behind him, but he was a wencher and a ne'er-do-well when I left, and I haven't heard he's improved. That sums up the problem. The Noble Houses are split right down the middle and there's only one way to break the deadlock."

"You?" Geoffrey asked.

She grimaced. "Aye. It's a duty I can't renounce -- and damned if I like it. I thought I'd left politics behind the day I formed the Sunhawks. I'd have avoided it if I could, but the ministers' envoys went straight to Leamount; now there's no getting out of it. And in all honesty, there's a kind of duty to your people that goes with being born into a royal house; I pretty much owe it to them to see that they get the best leader, if I can. So I'm going back to look the both of my brothers over and cast my vote; I'll be leaving within the hour."

"But- " The panic on Sewen's face was almost funny.

"Sewen, you're in charge," she continued impla-cably. "I expect this won't take long; I'll meet you all in winter quarters. As I said, we've been paid; we only need to wait until our wounded are mobile before you head back there. Any questions?"

The weary resignation on her face told them all that she wasn't looking forward to this -- and that she wouldn't welcome protests. What Idra wanted from her commanders was the assurance that they would take care of things for her in her absence as they had always done in her presence; with efficiency and dispatch.

It was the least they could give her.

They stood nearly as one, and gave her drillfield-perfect salutes.

"No questions. Captain," Sewen said for all of them. "We'll await you at Hawksnest, as ordered."