Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (15 page)

They were yet days from the Duke’s estate when his scouts reported a force blocking the road ahead, a hundred or so of Fall’s militia and less than that of cavalry in Ganarrion’s colors. That would be only what showed, he was sure. A cavalry reserve, perhaps among trees on the slopes of a hill. A militia reserve. Some kind of archers. Even a half-hundred of Count Vladi’s pikes.

Sitting on his black horse, two names for himself competing in his head, listening to reports, Alured
-Visli
considered how best to attack, drawing on what he had learned from his onetime allies in Siniava’s War: expect reserves, expect a unit you did not know was there, with weapons those in sight have not shown. His advisor stirred in his head but for once did not interfere. His advisor, he’d been told, had never fought this kind of war.

It would be a test battle, this first one. He had brought six hundred with him, a mix of weapons—he would see what worked. Every other consideration vanished as he made his decisions, ordered his troops, and advanced.

The Fallo contingents stood firm, though they were visibly outnumbered. So—they thought their reinforcements were larger than his. Larger they might be; harder they could not be, especially the veterans of the battle for Cortes Cilwan. Nor were they better equipped. In the first sandglass of the battle, his troops pushed back the Fallo infantry and his cavalry swept Ganarrion’s riders aside time and again. The Fallo reserves—poised, he was sure, on the slopes of the hills—did nothing.

That worried him. They should have—they must have—some point at which they would come charging down. He would have put his reserves in by now if his troops had been pushed back so far.

Now the Fallo front line appeared to waver, and in the rear some turned to run. His own troops pressed forward, his captains glancing back at him for an order to advance, pursue … but it did not feel right. So short a battle, given up so easily? He gave the order to halt; his flagmen flipped the flags back and forth at once, and his captains yelled at their men. His troops halted, shifted to a tighter formation.

Even as they did, the woods to either side gave back the sound of men running headlong through the trees, and Fallo’s reserves poured out into the open. All the reserves? They had seemed to lack discipline before, and now again they had not waited to be sure they had his flanks.

He signaled advance, and once more his troops pressed forward. The lines stiffened on Fallo’s side; the noise intensified. Slowly, bloodily, his troops made headway, pushing Fallo’s troops back step by step, death by death. He had the advantage; he had the numbers and the right weapons, and it worked as he had planned.

Because you knew to halt. How did you know?

He did not have time now. His advisor could see what he had seen only if he spoke the words to explain in his mind or let his advisor take over. The battle could still be lost if he did not stay alert. He said those words aloud as well as in his mind: “Not now. Later.”

Silence from his advisor. He rode his horse a little way up the slope of the hill on his sword-hand to get a better view of what lay ahead. Fields, a few simple farmhouses, a vill in the distance. A narrow bridge over a small creek, the line of the creek winding between him and the vill. And between him and the vill, what looked like a long mound casting a shadow—with no hedge on top. Black dirt against the green of young grain. It ringed the vill.

Fall’s troops must have come from there, must have tried to fortify the vill and then decided to march out to meet him. That could have worked if he’d had fewer troops or fallen for that ambush. But he had enough men to kill them all, given time.

He pushed them back almost to the creek, which seemed sunk deep in the rich soil. Then, to his surprise, a line of soldiers rose from the creek, coalesced into four cohorts of pikes, and—fresh and eager—plowed into his front lines. At the same time, cavalry in Ganarrion’s
colors galloped out from the vill, jumped the creek upstream and down of the battle, and fell upon his flanks.

Vaskronin disappeared from his mind, leaving Alured, survivor of many desperate times. He called on the magery his advisor had given him, clutching the red jewel on a chain around his neck. His troops roared and held their ground; he cast a dark cloud laden with fear at the enemy. For a moment the massed pikes faltered; the cavalry horses shied, bucked, bolted out of control. His troops advanced again, pushing the enemy back toward the creek while Alured aimed the fear and anguish trapped in the advisor’s jewel.

Finally the enemy broke and ran. He held his troops back from pursuit and pressed on to the vill. That fortified vill would make an excellent camp, a base from which to advance again.

He had won. He could conquer Fallo, and next year—next year he would take the rest of Aarenis. The year after that, the north. King. King of all.

You are strong and brave; you deserve to be king
.

Familiar warmth spread through his body, this time more flame than warmth along his bones. He felt more alive than ever, filled with strength, power, the wild joy of victory. In that moment of exultation, he had no thought of the disfigured child, of Andressat’s curse, of possible treachery. He dropped the reins, raised both hands high—sword and jewel symbols of his power—and spurred his mount toward the vill with the others, yelling in triumph.

And in that moment, the horse—the thief’s horse—squealed and twisted like a snake, fastening its teeth in his left leg, crushing his boot, grinding, yanking at his leg with all the strength of its powerful jaws and neck, pulling him out of the saddle. He dropped both jewel and sword, grabbing for the saddle, the mane, trying to stay on, but the horse shook his leg like a rag, kicking out behind. His own soldiers, aghast, could do nothing before he finally fell hard on the ground. The horse dropped his leg and bolted back the way they had come. No one pursued it.

He knew as he fell that he must get up at once and take control; without the jewel-caused terror, the enemy forces would return to the fight. His own forces might break. But the fall stunned him for a
moment, and he heard a low moan from those nearest. He struggled up, mouth too dry to yell over the noise, but as soon as he put weight on his left leg, pain lanced through his twisted knee, and his leg gave way. He lurched but managed to hop on one foot. He felt for the red jewel on its chain but found neither chain nor jewel. He saw his sword at a little distance … then one of his men was there with a horse, and another on foot. Together, they boosted him onto that horse; one of them handed up his own sword for Alured to use as the Fallo troops closed in.

His left leg dangled, painful and useless; he struggled to say atop the horse, let alone use the sword he’d been given. His troops, surprised by the turn of fortune, looked to him, expecting the familiar magery. The enemy, heartened, closed again; arrows flew from their bows. Even as he shouted orders—close up, hold the ground—he wondered where the jewel was. What if the enemy found it?

The battle now going on had a different feel to it; his troops were giving way—stubborn in their resistance but outnumbered. A fighting retreat was still possible—was necessary; Alured gathered his wits and gave the orders. Movement between the horses caught his eye. The man who had given up his horse and sword looked around—bent down and came up with Alured’s sword … and then, backing up two steps, stooped again, with a handful of chain and the red jewel glowing in the light.

Kill him!

His advisor was back, angry as his master had ever been at seeing the jewel in a stranger’s hand. The pressure of that other mind filled Alured’s head, punishing: the pain in his leg was as nothing to the agony in his head.

Kill him! Take the jewel! Hurry!

The man had turned toward him, his mouth open, calling something, but Alured could hear nothing over the voice inside. The man held up the jewel even as battle raged around them … he was coming to give it back.

KILL! He knows too much!

They were too close to the roiling edge of battle; Alured could see Ganarrion’s troopers only a few horse-lengths away now. The man on
the ground ran the last few steps, holding up the necklace. “My lord—I found it! Here it is!” Alured reached out for it, overbalancing as his injured leg could not grip the horse’s side; the man pushed the jewel into his hand and then pushed Alured back upright. “My lord—you’re hurt—you must retreat. I’ll lead your horse.”

The jewel warmed in Alured’s hand; strength flowed back into him as the pain in his head receded. Even his injured leg obeyed his command; his foot found the stirrup, and the leg snugged against the horse’s side. By then the man had caught hold of the reins and turned the horse, leading it toward the safer interior of his troops. Though his advisor still told him to kill the man, Alured-not-Visli felt relief. The man had saved his life; the man was not a thief but had given back the jewel. He did not want to kill the man; if enemies should be punished, surely those who gave good service should be rewarded.

Fool! He knows too much; he must die
.

They might all die if he did not concentrate on the battle and drive back the enemy once again. Yet he knew the jewel offered only one power at a time—he could not use it for strength for himself and at the same time send terror to his enemies. Had enough healing already occurred that he could use his leg without the jewel’s help?

He shifted his concentration, ignoring the pain that gripped his leg, and felt once more his own troops’ renewed confidence and the enemy’s loss of it. But this time the effect was not so powerful, and he could not maintain that concentration—and his balance in the saddle—very long. By worse mischance, an arrow struck his injured leg.

All that day the battle wavered back and forth, but by nightfall they were farther from the village, with the enemy testing their camp’s defenses.

The surgeon who attended him insisted he must not ride again until the leg healed—if it did. “The bite of a horse is a crushing wound, my lord. And the fever demons delight in a crushing wound. And your knee, my lord, was wrenched, I suppose when you fell. This is a serious wound, my lord—”

“From a
horse
.” That was humiliating, to be felled by a horse bite.

“And then the arrow, my lord. It struck the bone.” He made himself
look at the wound. They had cut off his boot; the horse’s teeth had gone through the leather and into his flesh. His leg was swollen, purple and red, with blood oozing from the teeth-marks and the slice the surgeon had made to extract the arrowhead. His knee was swollen to twice its size. The surgeon laid a poultice of healing herbs on it and bound the leg in splints. “Stay off it or it might never heal.”

The next day began the miserable retreat; he lay in a wagon, using the jewel as much as he could to hold off the most dangerous attacks, but he was soon exhausted and feverish. Every jolt of the wagon sent waves of pain through his leg and his ribs; the surgeon told him now they were likely broken. Daily his advisor told him to find and kill the man who had saved him, but he had no energy to spare for that.

By the time the army reached Cortes Immer, his leg was obviously infected, swollen almost to the groin. His surgeon had cut it open again to drain the stinking pus and pack the wound with healing herbs, but Alured—never thinking of himself as Visli now—was sure he would lose his leg or die. How could a one-legged man become king?

You can still be whole and a king. Do what I tell you
.

Her shoulder ached; she could not sleep. Arianya, Marshal-General of Gird, squirmed higher against her pillows, trying not to make a noise. If she couldn’t sleep, at least she could think, and she thought better sitting up. She hoped.

The past half-year had been the worst of her life as the Fellowship splintered on the matter of magery. She blamed herself for not anticipating the degree of resistance—the resurgence of the same hatred and resentment of magery that had in the end cost Gird’s life even as it gave peace for a time to the Fellowship and allowed Luap to get the surviving magelords to Kolobia.