Fire and Sword (27 page)

“Good. In that case I will have no hesitation in giving you command of the vanguard. I cannot desert the main body of the army to rush ahead.”

Galen nodded. “I am ... honored.”

“When we do force Salokan into battle, I will ensure your knights are given a role fitting their nobility and strength. And when we return to Kendra, I will tell Areava of the part you have played in the kingdom’s defense.”

Galen viewed the consort in a new and surprising light. Perhaps the very thing that had threatened to drive the nobility and the crown irrevocably apart might instead be the key to their rapprochement. Tonight was proving to be a succession of unexpected turns.

“Thank you,” he said solemnly.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Sendarus said. “We both have to survive the next few weeks first. Now get some rest. You move out at first light tomorrow.”

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.