The Fall of Neskaya (43 page)

Belisar stared at him, uncomprehending.

“It is a trap!” Rumail screamed.

The horns fell silent and in that moment, Belisar realized the old
laranzu
was right. His men and those of Hastur were no longer engaged; a space had opened up between the two forces. Dust settled, leaving a clear view of the field. The battle cries died to silence.

Rumail looked up, eyes bleak. Before he could speak, a roaring went up from the hills. The fog blinked into nothingness, as if it had never existed.

The Ambervale forces were surrounded by an army twice their size, standing on the heights to either side . . . and behind them. Under the cover of the unnatural fog, their retreat had been cut off.

“Do something!” he roared at Rumail.

“They are too strong,” the older man snapped. “And they are protected by
laran.
How else do you think they managed to stay hidden from
me?
”

On the field below, a rider spurred his mount from The Yellow Wolf’s position toward the cluster of Hastur banners on the far hillside. He carried a white flag. A short time later, another Ambervale rider, or perhaps it was the same, approached Belisar’s party.

The man’s face was chalky, but he held himself proudly. He slipped from the saddle and lowered himself to one knee. “Your Highness, I bring the Hastur’s terms for our surrender.”

Belisar fought a spurt of anger.
He
had not given any word to offer surrender. His father would be furious, no matter what the outcome now, whether it be defeat or the decimation of his fighting troops. Either way meant the loss of territory and the failure of their objective. The only difference would be the cost. The Yellow Wolf was right to seek a way to save his men to fight again, to snatch some particle of remaining strength out of ruin.

“On your feet, soldier. Let us hear these terms.”

The terms, although simple, were unexpectedly generous. The men would be free to return to their homes, even retaining their personal weapons, if they swore to never again take up those arms against Hastur. But Belisar himself was to surrender to King Rafael, to be taken back to Thendara.

“As what? As prisoner? As hostage?” Belisar said. “My father will never stand for this or bargain with this—this rabble!”

Belisar had never been so aware of his position as his father’s only living son, his heir. Damian had been right to keep him out of the battle itself, but erred in underestimating the Hastur. With Belisar in their hands and at their mercy, the mission would come to a standstill. His entire plan of conquest would fail. Just as he had needed Acosta as a gateway to Hastur, now he needed Hastur as the key to larger unity.

Belisar called for the Hastur envoy to be brought out and instructed the boy to tell his masters that the Prince required time, four hours at least, to confer with his general and make preparations. Then he dismounted and waited impatiently for The Yellow Wolf to join him. Then he walked apart with Rumail and the general, keeping his voice low.

“I must not surrender, you know that,” Belisar said. “We cannot let this happen, it’s impossible!”

“They will not permit us to retreat without it,” The Wolf said gravely.

Belisar fingered the edge of Rumail’s sleeve. The hooded robe was full enough to disguise the shape of its wearer. Muffled in its ample folds, he could leave with the other
laranzu’in.

But who would take his place? Could they fool the Hastur generals into thinking some subordinate was really Belisar himself? There must be a way! Quickly, he outlined his idea. The Yellow Wolf shook his head, saying, “They will know it is not you. Your appearance is too well known.”

“Together we three could cast a glamour on some other man that would resemble your outward appearance,” Rumail said. “He would have to resemble you in size, but that is not difficult. There are many soldiers who are close enough in height and build.”

“How long could you hold such an illusion?” The Wolf asked. “And would not their own sorcerers suspect such a trick and examine the man closely? Can you truly hide all traces of the disguise from them?”

“It will not last long outside of our influence,” Rumail admitted, “nor will it pass the close examination of anyone with trained
laran.
”

“Hastur’s generals are no fools, and as for his
laranzu’in
, we have already seen what they can do,” The Yellow Wolf said, rubbing the old scar which slashed across one cheek. “They will suspect . . .”

“Ah!” Rumail said. “But we will plan for that.”

Over the next hour, envoys went back and forth, as Hastur offered one hour and Belisar demanded three. The armies held their positions, Hastur on the heights and Ambervale in the valley. Men from both sides attended to the dead and nursed the wounded.

Rumail and his colleagues from Tramontana went back to the prior night’s camp, where they sequestered themselves in the quartermaster’s tent. Just as Hastur’s final deadline approached, Rumail sent word to Belisar.

The tent stank of the heat of the day, stale sweat, and the faint tang of wine. In the shadowed center, Belisar saw two men. They bowed to him, but neither spoke. One looked like any other young officer of about his own stature, but the other—it was
himself
he stared at. The imposter even spoke with his voice, a muttered, “Highness,” as if he were afraid to open his mouth properly.

No, he thought, moving closer, it was no mirror he looked at, but a blurred copy of himself. The face was right, the bright sunlit hair, the curve of lip and line of jaw, but surely he carried his shoulders straighter and moved with a more assertive stride?

“And you say this illusion will fool the Hastur and his wizards?” Belisar asked Rumail.

“Oh, I fully intend it will not. As you can see, this spell is crude, as if hastily wrought.” Rumail closed his hand around his starstone. The features of the counterfeit Belisar wavered like a mirage in a heat wave, and another man stood there, blinking. In the next moment, the illusion was restored. “Anyone who knows you well will detect the difference in a few moments.”

“Then what—”

“The Hastur
laranzu’in
are competent. They will surely unmask this man as an impostor. We will admit our duplicity—your general and I—and reluctantly turn over this second man instead.”

“But he looks nothing like me!”

Rumail gave an exasperated sigh. “He looks, to anyone with even a trace of
laran
, like a man whose true appearance has been disguised with a glamour. And his ‘true appearance’ . . .”

“Will be mine!” Belisar cried, delighted at the trick.

“Having discovered one disguise, they will not think to look deeper,” Rumail said. “They may be skilled, but victory will make them arrogant as well.”

“Uncle, you are indeed a crafty old fox!”

After the imposter mounted Belisar’s red-gold horse and headed for the Hastur encampment and his formal surrender, Belisar and Rumail remained in the tent. Belisar removed his fine tunic, boots, and sword on its leather belt, and slipped into Rumail’s cloak. Rumail himself put on ordinary clothing, shirt and breeches over worn boots. He looked like any middle-aged camp servant, a physician perhaps, but nothing more. As Belisar finished adjusting the cloth belt, Rumail gestured for him to approach.

Belisar stared into Rumail’s starstone. Something behind his throat turned icy and
shifted.
For a long moment, his lungs locked. He seemed to be encased in blue ice.

“There.” Rumail’s word released him and Belisar could breathe again. “Now you can swear by anything you like, even under truthspell, that you are Beron, a novice matrix mechanic training with us at Ambervale, and no one will be able to gainsay you.”

During the inspection of the vanquished troops and the taking of their oaths, Belisar kept the hood well down over his face. He tried to stand with his hands folded meekly and remembered to keep his posture stooped. His ears strained for every syllable of the officers’ conversations, particularly the surrender of “Prince Belisar.”

The ordering of the armies to march out went smoothly. The first impostor was discovered, even as Rumail had foretold, and the second offered and accepted.

By the time the second exchange was complete, sweat covered Belisar’s sides and his nerves were strained as taut as bowstrings. From the shadows of his hood, he watched The Yellow Wolf’s impassive face as he led the retreat.

Although Belisar did not particularly like his uncle, the man clearly had his uses. When the Hastur lieutenant asked for his name and Belisar offered the alias, not even a flicker of doubt crossed the man’s face.

Belisar mounted a mule, by its conformation and temper a pack animal completely unsuitable for riding, and followed Rumail and his
laranzu’in
, at a respectful distance behind The Yellow Wolf and his senior officers. The mule shook its head from time to time, long ears flapping away the flies. Belisar wondered irritably how long he was going to have to sit on its bony back before he could command a proper horse. He knew better than to draw attention to himself; he must act as he appeared, a very junior
laran
worker, a person of no special account.

Rumail rode hunched over, one hand cupped in front of him, the other loosely holding the reins. Suddenly, he straightened in the saddle. His mule jumped, ears flattening as he clapped his feet to its sides. Shouting, he headed straight for The Yellow Wolf.

Belisar could not see exactly what happened next. There was a flurry of activity in the general’s party and officers spurred their mounts back toward the main force. Trumpets sounded retreat, with the emphasis on the sequence which meant
as fast as possible.
One of the lieutenants, the earnest young officer who was the special protege of The Yellow Wolf, slid his tall roan mare to a halt before Belisar and jumped from her back.

“Take the horse, my prince! General’s orders!” he cried, grabbing the mule’s reins.

Belisar kicked his feet from the mule’s stirrups and landed lightly and gracefully. The hood flew back from his face. “What’s happened?”

“The second imposter has been discovered.
Dom
Rumail saw it in his starstone. They know, Highness,
they know!
”

Already the foremost men passed them, footmen and archers running, cavalry moving to defend the rear. Rumail had returned to join the other
laranzu’in
away from the main trail. From his saddlebags, Rumail took out a small metal apparatus, unfolding its segmented wings. The belly of rounded glass glowed poisonous green, but otherwise it was shaped like a bird. A starstone chip glittered where its left eye should be.

So Rumail actually meant to deploy the accursed things. Belisar knew it was their only hope—
his
only hope—and yet his stomach kindled with frozen fire.

Belisar vaulted on the roan mare’s back and dug his heels into her sides, whipping her with the ends of the reins for every last bit of speed.

U
nder a sky the color of slate, afternoon sat sullen over the hills surrounding Acosta Castle, Damian Deslucido’s battle headquarters. Black-and-white pennants sagged from their moorings on the walls and the tents of the army encamped on the fields below. Now and again, a fight between two or three soldiers broke the lassitude of the day. No birds sang, although huge black flies sent the picketed horses stamping and biting at one another. Within the castle, a baby cried fitfully.

Damian Deslucido stood on the battlements, looking out over the far vinyards, and reflected on how easy it had been to ride through them on the way to victory and how unsatisfying that victory had become. The thrill of conquest evaporated in the reality that he now ruled such a vast land that he must sit here, waiting for news, while other men led his armies. So he had sent Belisar on what should have been an easy foray, to snatch and hold a few miles of useless borderland.