“Does it look to you like it’s going to rain?”
“It doesn’t.”
“No chance of a sudden freak storm in this country?”
“There’s not. Uh, here, my lord, what—”
“You’ll see.” Nevyn was wearing one of his slyest smiles. “Now, I’m about to go into a trance, and I’ll need you to guard my body. That’s why I asked you to come along, just in case some enemy should find me by accident. We’d best slack the horses’ bits and let them rest. This will take a while.”
“Oh ye gods!” the prince snarled. “Burcan’s got his spearmen up there!”
“So he does,” Caradoc said. “Clever fellow, isn’t he?”
“Clever?” Gwerbret Daeryc snorted. “Impious, that’s what I call it. Battle’s for the noble-born, not a pack of shoemakers’ sons!”
Daeryc shook his fist in the general direction of the regent, then peeled out of line and trotted off to join his warband. In the fallow fields below the rise, the army was in the long process of halting and spreading out behind the prince and his silver daggers. From where they sat on horseback, Caradoc and Maryn could look up the long slope and see Burcan’s position clearly. Branoic, riding as usual at the prince’s right flank, shaded his eyes with one hand and tried to estimate the distance.
The slope stretched maybe as much as a quarter mile to rise some hundred yards above the flat, not steep, no, but any charge to the top would arrive on winded horses. At the center of the regent’s line, directly across the disputed road, stood a shield-wall—a double line of spearmen standing so close that one man’s shield protected half the man next to him as well as his own left side. To either flank stood contingents of mounted men, ready to close like a pair of jaws if the Red Wyvern sent a wedge to try to break the wall.
“I’d wager that Burcan has a good reserve,” the prince was saying, “behind that shield-wall.”
“He’d be a fool if he didn’t, Your Highness,” Caradoc said. “And I’ve never seen him play the fool.”
“So then. We hold our position here and wait. Send a couple of your men along the line and pass the word to the noble-born, Captain.”
Wait? Branoic shifted in the saddle and glanced at Owaen, who looked just as surprised as he was. Caradoc, however, was grinning—a good sign that the prince had some clever dodge in mind. When the messengers trotted off, Branoic hooked his shield over the saddle peak to follow orders about that waiting. When Owaen did the same, Branoic caught a glimpse of his four-fingered hand. The scar from the amputation had broken open, and blood oozed; Owaen seemed not to notice.
The sun climbed and grew hot. Flies gathered. All up and down the prince’s line, men and horses both flicked them away and moved uneasily in place. The men muttered as well, turning in their saddles to ask questions of other men who knew no more than they did. Some of the noble-born began grumbling a little louder. The prince and the captain ignored them all and sat easy in their saddles. Every now and then Caradoc would glance at the sky.
Up on their ridge Burcan’s army began to turn restless. Branoic could see movement among the riders, as impatient horses danced and men leaned forward to pat their necks and calm them. The shield-wall stood immobile; this wait in the hot sun must have been worse for them, Branoic realized, and he wondered if perhaps the prince was hoping to wear them down before he charged.
“What?” Owaen suddenly hissed under his breath. “What by all the hells?”
Branoic looked up and saw a cloud forming over the regent’s army, a small, rather ordinary cloud like a puff of fog from the harbor down in Cerrmor, but the sea lay over a hundred miles away. The white cloud drifted for a moment, then began enlarging and spreading out in long tendrils as it grew. Other clouds appeared near it so suddenly that it seemed some invisible hand had thrown them there. They too enlarged themselves, joining and melding until at last storm clouds loomed high and grey in the sky, swirling over the regent’s army and stretching out north behind their position toward Dun Deverry.
At the southern edge of this storm the prince and his men still waited in bright sun even though a shadow lay dark across their enemies. All at once lightning cracked; thunder boomed from a clear sky. With a slap of wind, rain poured down upon the crest of the rise, a perfectly normal rain, it seemed, except of course the edge of the storm fell, sharp and clean, about halfway down the slope. Nevyn! Branoic thought. He’s the one behind this! The prince’s men began cheering and laughing, as if they’d had the same thought themselves. Prince Maryn grabbed his silver horn and blew the alert. As the signal spread down the line, the laughter stopped. Men grabbed shields and settled them, then drew their javelins from the sheaths under their right legs.
Up on the rise the regent’s army was beginning to break. Horses were rearing and milling about; the shield-wall was disintegrating. They were hardened men, used to marching and fighting in the rain, but this display of dweomer was another matter entirely. Over the past few years they’d heard a flood of rumors and omens about the coming of the one true king. For all they knew, some god or other had brought about this unnatural storm and was cursing them for resisting Maryn’s advance. Lightning cracked again, and again the thunder boomed. Branoic could hear the sound of horns drifting down from the ridge—desperate horns, trying to rally men who were on the point of desertion.
Maryn drew his sword and held it high while he stared uphill at the enemy line. The prince was grinning like a berserker with his entire concentration bent on judging the moment. Up on the ridge the regent’s left flank suddenly crumbled. Men were turning their horses; the noise of horns and shouts doubled. All at once the spearmen began to scatter, peeling out of position and running. Some shamelessly threw their shields; others held them over their heads to ward off the evil magicks in the sky.
“Now!” Maryn screamed. “Now!”
Just as the front line leapt forward and charged, the rain stopped. Under the shadow of clouds they galloped forward. About halfway up the slope they hurled javelins, a metal rain that showered down upon the unarmored backs of the fleeing spearmen. In a welter of screams men fell and sprawled. Their long shields caught the wind and flew under the hooves of the retreating cavalry. Horses reared in panic, then slipped on the wet ground and went down, throwing their riders and rolling on those who couldn’t scramble out of the way.
Branoic broke out laughing and stopped just as suddenly when he saw that the regent was rallying his men. Branoic saw the Green Wyvern banner and then the Boar, flapping in the wind. Riders were gathering round them as the center of the line suddenly steadied itself. Worse yet: Branoic glanced around and realized that the prince and a handful of silver daggers had ridden free of their own charging army.
“Halt!” he screamed. “Caradoc, get back!”
Branoic kicked his horse and caught up with them just as the Ram’s men came charging up to join the prince’s guard. He could hear Tieryn Peddyc screaming orders as the Boarsmen galloped across the flat of the ridge. Branoic had just enough time to maneuver his horse up to guard the prince’s flank when they hit. Horses kicked out and bit; men swore; the two groups locked together on the field with no room to ride.
Impossible to count numbers, impossible to care—Branoic bent his will to the enemies in front of him, Boarsmen all. He ducked, parried, dodged more than swung. What counted now was staying alive long enough to keep himself between the prince and the enemies pressing in. Over the general screaming and battle noise he could pick out Caradoc’s voice, yelling, “To the prince!” over and over. The Boarsman directly in front of him leaned in too far; Branoic whacked his sword arm hard with a swing from underneath. Cursing, the Boarsman dropped his sword and had to try to back his horse out of the melee. With a wrench of his body and a hard nudge from one knee, Branoic got his own horse to dance a few steps to one side, so that he could use the trapped Boarsman’s horse as something of an extra shield.
Yet another wedge of riders pressed in from the rear. Branoic swu
ng both sword and shield while he swore in a steady mutter under his breath. Keep them off. He could allow himself no other thought but this. Keep them off the prince. All at once he heard a warcry he didn’t know from directly behind him. No time to turn and look, but he fully expected to die until the rider at last managed to fall in next to him. Branoic risked a glance and saw a Ram shield, one trimmed with silver.
“I’ll guard your right!” Lord Anasyn called out. “Owaen’s directly behind the prince.”
“Splendid!” Branoic called back. “You bastard!”
This last was for the trapped Boarsman, who in desperation had grabbed a javelin, his last weapon, and was trying to couch it in one arm like a spear. Branoic slapped the point hard and flipped it away from him, then leaned in and stabbed. Just in time the Boarsman flung up his shield, but Branoic’s blow cracked the wood. Branoic slashed back at him and caught the shield again. Half of it fell away. When the Boarsman wrenched his horse’s head around, Branoic’s next blow caught him across the back. With a grunt he slumped forward, but his horse kept moving, shoving itself toward safety as other Boarsmen opened their line and engulfed him. Branoic had to let him go.
Once again the Boars’ line surged forward. Branoic returned to the hard rhythm of defense. Keep them off, keep them back—no room to maneuver, no glory for him—just the endless parry and dodge, duck and strike to drive away, not kill. As long as he lived, they’d never reach the prince. Horns were sounding, but whose he neither knew nor cared. The Boarsmen fell back a little and were gathering for another surge when a squad with the blue shields of Glasloc slammed into them from the side. Cackling with laughter, Gwerbret Daeryc was slashing as he rode, and his men were screaming warcries as they struck. The Boars’ line fell back, but only briefly. When Branoic risked a glance around, he saw the regent’s own guard riding to the Boar’s aid. He knew them by the green wyverns on their shields.
“Hold, hold!” Caradoc was shouting. “Silver daggers, to me!”
From across the field silver daggers answered. Branoic could hear voices he recognized screaming warcries as they tried to cut their way to the prince. The fighting went on while the last of the dweomer-clouds broke up and blew away in a rising wind.
From his position among the beeches, Maddyn had a distant view of the battle. Nevyn had lain himself down on his back in the grass, with a folded-up cloak for a pillow, but his restful pose had proved an illusion. As soon as he’d fallen into a deep trance, he began to move. At first he merely twitched, and his lips worked as if he were talking in his sleep. All at once he flung one arm straight up into the air. His head flopped from side to side. Maddyn crouched next to him and wondered what he should do. Since Nevyn was smiling, it seemed that he was safe enough, but suddenly he jerked his legs and let his arm flop down to the grass.
For a long while he lay so still that Maddyn risked getting up and looking around. In the valley below the regent’s position, he could see the prince’s army spreading out. Maddyn felt a twist of fear. A charge up that slope would cost a heavy price in lives. He stood shading his eyes with one hand and watching until the Red Wyvern army came to a halt. They had formed up in ragged lines five riders deep.
Behind him Nevyn suddenly spoke in a loud and ringing voice.
“Lords of Air, hear my plea!”
Maddyn spun around to find Nevyn spreadeagled on the grass, still in his trance. He knelt beside him just as the old man sat up, called out an incomprehensible word, and flopped down onto his back again. After a long moment, he fell motionless in a sleep that seemed nearer death. He could have warned me, Maddyn thought with some bitterness. Curiosity bit too hard for him to stay at Nevyn’s side. He got up to look at the battlefield in time to see the unnatural storm forming over Regent Burcan’s army. A wind slammed into the beeches and made them rustle as it tore past, heading across the valley to the ridge.
“Lords of Air, indeed!” Maddyn said aloud.
He stood watching as the clouds thickened and the thunder boomed in the sky. The air around him, far away though he was, seemed charged with some strange force or power, as if the very elements themselves quivered with excitement. When he rubbed a hand on his wool brigga, little blue sparks snapped and tingled. He wondered if the same was happening to Burcan and his men. When the rains started, he felt a small stab of pity for the enemy, trapped between the prince’s army and dweomer as they were, but the pity vanished when the prince charged. Without thinking he yelled aloud to cheer them on.
From his distance Maddyn saw embattled armies whole for the first time, as if they were entities that had life and identity. Thanks to the wet ground, no dust cloud rose over the fighting. It was a greater marvel even than the dweomer-storm to see in the clear what had so often trapped and overwhelmed him. He watched fascinated as the Red Wyvern rushed uphill to leap upon the Green, which broke apart and seemed ready to shatter, only to recover itself and countercharge. Off to the flanks of the battle he could see fragments of the Green army running away. A few turned back to rejoin the fighting, but most eventually passed out of sight behind the sheltering downs.
“They’re on their own,” Nevyn remarked from behind him.
Maddyn yelped, then collected himself.
“Ye gods, but you startled me! I’ve been cursed near entranced, watching.”
“My apologies. I could clear the ridge for them, but the prince will have to win the actual battle. It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?”
“It is. I just wish my friends weren’t in the middle of it.”
“That does take the bloom off.”
For a long while they stood together, watching the battle sway this way and that along the crest of the ridge. Over it the dweomer-clouds broke up and dissipated as quickly as they’d formed. When Maddyn glanced at the sky he realized that the day stood well past noon.
By then the entire Red Wyvern army had advanced up the slope from the flat and taken the crest. The fighting spread to the north as the prince’s men drove the regent’s from the high ground and scattered them down the other side. More and more riders fled the field in a disorganized scatter.
“Maryn is going to claim the victory here,” Maddyn said at last.
“So it seems,” Nevyn said. “We’d best get back to camp. I need to get ready for the wounded.”
The sun hung well past its zenith by the time that the last of the regent’s forces broke and fled. By then the brunt of the fighting had shifted away from the prince. As his allies from the rear lines forced their way onto the crest, their fresher warbands drove the exhausted units in Burcan’s army away from Maryn and the banners of the Red Wyvern. In this lull Branoic lowered his shield and allowed himself to pant for breath. Beside him, Lord Anasyn was doing the same. A flower of red blood bloomed on the lord’s cheek and a bruise was swelling around it.
“Naught serious,” Anasyn gasped when Branoic pointed. “Just a flick of a blade.”
Branoic nodded, then returned to watching the field. Around them the battle had broken up into little clots of fighting between the victorious Red Wyvern forces and men who could neither flee nor hold their position. Branoic rose in the stirrups and with his height got a good look round. Most of the regent’s army was retreating with the Boars falling in to guard its rear. Not far from the silver daggers’ position, though, one Boarsman rode slowly alone, lurching back and forth in the saddle. When his horse stumbled, he dropped his shield; silver trim caught the sunlight and flashed.
“Oho!” Branoic said as he pointed him out. “I think that’s some lord of the Boars.”
“Some lord?” Anasyn snapped. “By the hells, it’s Gwerbret Tibryn himself.”
They exchanged a glance, grinned, then kicked their tired horses to a lope and charged after the gwerbret. Anasyn rode round in front to guard while Branoic grabbed Tibryn’s horse’s reins. Tibryn had lost his helm, and blood sheeted down the side of his face from a wound that had half-torn his scalp off. A flap of hair and flesh both hung grotesqu
ely over one ear. He stared at them both as if he had no idea who they were or where they all might be.
“Let’s get him back,” Anasyn said. “Before they come after us.”
At his voice, Tibryn clutched his saddle peak with both hands to steady himself and peered at the Ram shield.
“Traitor” was the only word he spoke.
By the time Nevyn and Maddyn rode into camp, the battle had long since ended. Exhausted men led exhausted horses out to tether; others carried wounded friends to the chirurgeons; those who’d come through unscathed were heading for the carts to fetch food for the rest. Down at the river’s edge men and horses alike waded out into the cleansing water to drink their fill after the thirst of battle. Nevyn rose in the stirrups to look around for the prince, but a servant came running up to him.
“My lord! Caudyr sent me to you. They’ve got a prize, and they’re trying to keep him alive.”
Nevyn dismounted, flung his reins to Maddyn, and hurried off after the servant. At Caudyr’s station Branoic stood watching while Caudyr himself stitched a wound in the right thigh of a man lying on the wagon gate. Caudyr had already wrapped the fellow’s head tightly with bandages, but blood was oozing through. Their prize lay mercifully unconscious, a middle-aged man with a broad face that seemed familiar.
“That’s not Burcan, is it?” Nevyn said.
“It’s not, my lord,” Branoic said. “His brother.”
Nevyn washed his hands in the bucket of water Caudyr had ready nearby, then took a place on the other side of the gate.
“It looks like you’ve done what you can for him,” Nevyn said.
“No doubt.” Caudyr looked up, then paused to wipe the sweat from his arm on his shirtsleeve. “I mostly wanted your opinion. Think he’ll live?”
“How much blood has he lost?”
“A hellish amount. And this wound here goes deep. A javelin caught him just below the skirt of his mail, I’d say, and then he probably pulled it out himself.”
“What about that head wound?”