Hall of the Mountain King (31 page)

At first he settled by his tent to break his fast and speak
with his commanders. Even from the edges of the camp his scarlet cloak was
clear to see.

As the morning advanced with no word from his scouts and no
move from the enemy, he beckoned to Vadin, leaving the captains to debate
battle now, battle later, battle never. The Mad One, whom no tether or hobble
could hold, had freed Rami from her picket and led her up the hill. The grooms
had brushed them both until they shone, and plaited their manes scarlet
battle-streamers.

King and squire descended to meet them. The Mad One lowered
his head to blow into his comrade’s hands, and pawed the ground. In an instant
Mirain was on his back.

Adjan found the king among the cavalry of Arkhan, admiring
the points of a trooper’s dappled mare. His eyes flashed at once to the
captain, but he brought his colloquy to a graceful and unhurried end,
withdrawing easily, taking with him the men’s goodwill. But once behind the
lines, he loosed his hold on his patience.

“Well? What news?”

“One scout has come back,” Adjan answered. “The others he
knows of are dead. He’s not well off himself.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

“Arrow in the shoulder. A flesh wound, no more; the doctors
are taking care of it. But his mind . . .”

The Mad One was stretching already from canter into gallop.

oOo

It was as Adjan had said. The scout sat in the healers’
tent, hale enough in body, while an apprentice bound his shoulder. But his eyes
were too wide; a thin film of sweat gleamed on his brow.

As Mirain approached, he thrust himself to his feet, sending
the healer sprawling. “Sire! Thank all the gods!”

Under the terror he was a goodly enough man, square and
solid though smaller than most men in Ianon, hardly taller than Mirain himself.
He was no novice, nor was he the sort of man who was given to night terrors.
Yet he fell at Mirain’s feet, clutching them, weeping like a child.

Mirain dragged him erect. “Surian,” he said sharply. At the
sound of his name, the man quieted a little. “Surian, control yourself.” With a
visible effort the man obeyed. Mirain kept a grip on his good shoulder. “Soldier,
you have a report to make.”

He drew a shuddering breath. Under Mirain’s hand and eye he
found the words he needed. “I set out as commanded, to reconnoiter the
southeastern edge of the enemy’s army. There were six men with me. We kept to
our places, each of us signaling his safety at intervals. We met no opposition.
If the enemy had sent out scouts, they were better at their work than we.

“We advanced with all caution. A bowshot from the enemy we
stopped. No; were stopped. It was an act of will to move forward. The enemy was
still a shape in shadow; when I tried to reckon numbers, my mind spun and went
dark. I never called myself a coward, sire, but I swear, at that moment I could
have bolted, honor and duty be damned.

“One of my men broke, left his cover and ran. An arrow
caught him in the throat. An arrow out of the air, with no bowman to be seen
behind it.

“That must have been a signal. Arrows swarmed over us. No
matter where we were or what we did, we were hit. My lord, I swear by Avaryan’s
hand, I saw one
bend
around a rock
and bury itself in a man’s eye.”

“Yes,” Mirain said with flat and calming acceptance. “They
all died, I was told. But you live.”

Surian swallowed hard, trembling with shock and pain and
remembered horror. “I . . . I live. I think, sire, I was meant to. No, I know
it. I’m meant for a message and a mockery.”

“She knows us wholly,” Mirain muttered, “and we grope for
knowledge of her.”

Surian stared at him, afraid to understand him. He smiled
faintly but truly. “You’ve done well. Rest now. While I live, no darkness shall
harm you.”

oOo

The sun passed its zenith and began to sink into the
spell-wrought shadow. Still the enemy had not moved. Mirain’s army, drawn taut
too long, began to slacken.

“Imagine days of this,” Vadin said.

“Our enemy is well capable of it.” Mirain had bidden his men
be fed again, for diversion as well as for strength, although Vadin had not
been able to make him break his own fast. He paced instead, with a bit of fruit
forgotten in his hand. “But if we attack, we attack blind. Literally, maybe.
I’m not yet as desperate as that.”

“What do you counsel then?” demanded Prince Mehtar, doffing
his helmet and handing it to his squire, and biting into a half-loaf spread
thick with softened cheese. “We can sit here until we starve, and then the
enemy can roll over us.”

“With all of us begging to be trampled.” Alidan drained a
cup of ale as handily as any man-at-arms. “My lord, we have to do better than
that.”

Mirain glared at the ground where already he had paced out a
path in the sparse grass of the hilltop. “Yes, we must. But I dare not give in
to my instincts and lead a full charge against the enemy. What they did to a
dozen scouts, mountain tribesmen and hunters of Ianon, they can do to three
thousand of my warriors.”

“Die swift or die slow,” Mehtar said, “die we will, if this
army is as large as it looks.”

“Ah, but is it?” Mirain ceased his pacing at the farthest
extent of his path, eyes turned westward under his shading hand. “Think now.
The Marchers have men in plenty, and my turncoat lords likewise. But not enough
to fill yonder hills, or to stretch back as far as these seem to stretch.”

“Yes,” said Vadin, “and it’s been making me wonder. These
are men we know, men like us, some probably forced to fight at their lords’ command,
others following Moranden in good faith. If we can hardly endure the shadow at
this distance, how can they march under it?”

“Illusion,” Mirain answered him, “and delusion: the black
heart of magic. They see no shadow: they think the sun is free and their minds
likewise, even as they think only the thoughts the mages permit them to think.
They dream that they have come to rid the throne of an impostor and the kingdom
of a threat; commanded to slay and burn, they see in front of them not villages
of women and children but camps of my soldiers. And the witch whose spells rule
them—the witch laughs. Her laughter shudders in my bones.”

He spun on his heel. They were all silent. Some of them
thought he might be mad. “No,” he said, “only god-ridden. My lords, my ladies,
our enemy dares us to fight or fly. I’ve never had much skill in running. Shall
we fight?”

“That will be a swift death,” Mehtar said, approving.

“Maybe not, my lord. The witch taunts us with her strength.
Let us prove to her that strength can matter little. The tactics of the wolf:
strike, slash, leap away.”

Adjan’s eyes narrowed as he calculated. “We can do that.
Wear down the enemy’s men, who can’t be so very many more than we are, and keep
our own happy. But we can’t stretch out our necks too far, or we’ll lose too
many and the other side not enough.”

“Ten captains,” said Mirain. “Ten men of proven courage with
hand- picked troops. Adjan, my lord prince, will you command two of the
companies?”

“Aye,” Mehtar said for both. “Eight more to find, then.
Shall I do it, sire?”

“Seven,” Mirain corrected him. “I shall take a company. You
may choose the rest as you will. We ride out within the hour. Choose well and
swiftly.”

Mehtar opened his mouth, shut it again carefully. With equal
care he bowed. “As my king commands.”

oOo

Each captain of the sortie led twice nine men. Mirain
commanded nine men and five of his own guard, and Vadin, and Jeran and Tuan of
the race to Umijan; and Alidan. They formed ranks quietly but without undue
stealth behind the main line of forces, mounted on seneldi chosen for speed and
courage.

Vadin glanced from side to side. Alidan was close on his
right hand, anonymous in armor and helmet, wearing the scarlet cloak of the
king’s guard. She looked both capable and deadly, and she sat her fiery
stallion better than most men. At his left rode Mirain, aglitter in his golden
armor. Beyond them on either side he saw the other companies drawn up, mounted
and ready.

It was like a melee at the Summer Games; and yet how unlike.
This was real. Men would die here for the king who sat lightly in his tall
saddle, toying with a wayward battle-streamer. By his word they stood; by his
word they would fall.

Vadin’s heart hammered. His nostrils twitched with the faint
sharp tang of his own fear. Death he was not afraid of; he had lain in its
arms. But he could fear pain, fear overlaid and underlaid and shot through with
something light and fierce and salty-sweet. Something like gaiety, something
like passion: the inimitable scent and sense of battle. Everything was sharper,
clearer, more wonderful and more terrible.

He laughed, and because people stared, laughed again in pure
mirth. In the midst of it his eye caught a flame of gold. Mirain had raised his
hand.

The lines opened, here, there. Rami gathered her haunches
beneath her. The companies darted forth, no two at once, no two in the same
direction. Mirain’s force thundered straight to the center, over the plain,
through the swift tumble of Ilien, up the slight slope beyond. There was no
cover there; they were naked to the sky and to the waiting shadow.

Vadin settled himself more firmly in the saddle. Rami’s
gallop was smooth, effortless. The silver mane floated over his hand. One
blood-red streamer whipped back to strike his wrist.

The enemy waited. He could see as one sees at dusk: shapes,
eyes, but no features. The eyes wore no more expression than the weapons bent
against him.

He drew his sword. It was light in his hand, although the
blade was strangely dark, its polished sheen lost in dimness.

The company rode together still, close at Mirain’s back. But
some did not ride easily; their mounts fretted, veering and shying. One man
flogged his senel on with his scabbard, the face within the open helmet like a
demon mask, teeth bared, eyes white-rimmed.

The horror touched Vadin as a wind will, brushing and
chilling but going no deeper than the skin. Looking down, he saw with mild
surprise that his body was clothed in a faint golden shimmer, a pale echo of
the shining splendor that was Mirain.

Close now. No arrows hummed out of the massed ranks; no
spear flew. There was a taste in his mouth as strong as fear.

Trap
. He set his
teeth against it. Rami leaped the last yards, braced for battle. Vadin swung up
his sword.

The enemy wavered like a mirage, melted and faded and
vanished away. Vadin heard cries of anger or of terror. Seneldi screamed. The
arrows began to fall.

The Mad One trumpeted, a great stallion-blast of rage and
challenge. “On!” Mirain cried to him and to all who could hear.
“On!”

Shadows, all shadows. Vadin’s blade clove air again and
again. Yet still he struck, still he pressed on. Bolts sang past him; one
pierced his flying cloak. He laughed at them.

With a shock so powerful it nearly flung him to the ground,
his sword struck flesh. Blood fountained, red as Rami’s streamers.

As if a spell had been broken, suddenly he could see. Though
dim and shadowed still, an army spread before and about him, drawn up under
banners he knew. They had few cavalry: the Marches were not known for their
herds. Most of the seneldi drew chariots.

Those he could not face, even wild with battle as he was.
Mirain had given them a wide berth, striking against knights and infantry;
Vadin sent Rami after him. The enemy fought well and fiercely enough, but there
was a strangeness in their eyes, as if they did not truly see him.

They struck only when struck first; they did not attack. All
along their lines, knots of combat alternated with unnatural stillness. Even
the chariots did not roll forth to hew the attackers into bloody fragments, but
stood where they were set, the charioteers’ eyes fixed straight before them.

In Geitan they had told Vadin that he was rarely blessed, a
warrior who could sing as he fought. But that was against men who were free to
sing in turn, fight in turn, slay in turn. This was a travesty, a sorcerous
horror.

His lips drew back from his teeth in sudden, deadly rage.
“Fight, damn you!” he howled. “Turn on us! Hammer us down!”

The eyes did not change. His sword turned in his hand; he
began to lay about him with the flat of it, stunning but not wounding. He
sensed Mirain close by him: a gathering of power, stronger, stronger, until
surely he would burst with it.

Mirain let it go. The light upon him mounted to a blaze.
Eyes woke to life, to fear, to battle-madness. With a shrill cry a charioteer
lashed his team against the attackers.

Darkness roared down. Rami wheeled uncommanded, running as
she had never run before, flat to the ground, ears pinned to her head.

She burst from the shadow like a demon out of hell, eyes and
nostrils fire-red. The stream flashed silver about her feet.

Beyond it she slowed, became a seneldi mare again, breathing
hard, with foam white on her neck.

Vadin blinked in the bright sunlight. His fingers were
clamped about the hilt of his sword; painfully he loosed them, wiping his blade
on his cloak.

Blood faded into royal scarlet. With a convulsive movement
he thrust the sword into its sheath.

Mirain’s sortie had done what it intended. The enemy was in
turmoil, too intent on the spell’s breaking to muster an assault. But the cost
had been frighteningly high. Mirain’s men milled here and there on the hither
side of the water, with riderless seneldi running among them. They moved with
order in their confusion, a swift and steady retreat with an eye constantly on
the enemy, and there were far fewer in the retreat than had ridden to the
attack.

Mirain’s own company gathered to him. Vadin counted and
groaned aloud. Of eighteen, twelve were gone. The six who remained rode like
wounded men, several on wounded beasts.