The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (27 page)

“Neither has Burcan.”

The prince nodded. Long after the lords and their men both had gone to their blankets, Caradoc and Maryn were sitting at the dying council fire. Yawning on the edge of sleep, Nevyn sat with them. He’d been on his feet since the first of the wounded began coming in, those who could stay on a horse long enough to reach the camp, until but a few moments past, when he’d given up hope for the last of the dying.

“Interesting little problem,” Caradoc went on. “I remember our first summer in Cerrmor. We would have given an arm apiece for more men. We only fought the battles we couldn’t get out of fighting, and you won those by being fast and clever. Now we’ve got the men—”

“And we’re as slow as toads on cold stone, truly,” Maryn said. “Nevyn, what do you think?”

“Imph?” Nevyn shook himself awake. “My apologies, Your Highness.”

“Nah nah nah, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. You’re exhausted. Get some sleep.”

“I will, my thanks. Humph. I must be getting old.”

It seemed that Regent Burcan was considering tactics as well. For two days the Boarsmen retreated north and the Red Wyvern followed. The closer they drew to the Holy City, the more the land rose, until by the third day they reached the South Downs, where the land swelled like waves far out to sea. When scouts rode out, they could see a long way ahead. They returned on the evening of that third day to report that Burcan’s army had ensconced itself on a low rise some five miles north, blocking the road again but this time from high ground.

It was not good news. The prince called for a council of war at his fire that night, and after the noble-born had wrangled among themselves for a while, Maryn turned as usual to Caradoc.

“Clever of them,” Caradoc remarked. “We’ll have a lovely little fight of it, trying to charge uphill.”

“Just so,” Maryn said. “If we ride, they’ll kill our horses as fast as we crest the ridge.”

“Fight unhorsed, my liege?” Tieryn Gauryc snarled. “Surely you don’t suggest that?”

Most of the noble-born jumped to their feet and began muttering. Maryn got up and shouted.

“Hear me out!”

The lords fell silent. Nevyn noticed Tieryn Peddyc soothing Daeryc with a friendly hand on his overlord’s arm.

“If we try to fight on foot,” Maryn went on, “they’ll only ride us down. I know that as well as you do. So what do you suggest, my lords? With this big an army, we can’t simply outflank them and ride around their position.”

The lords considered. No one spoke.

“With the river to one side of us,” Maryn said, “we can’t split our force and encircle them, either. Burcan’s picked a nice spot for a fight.”

“Imph, well,” Tieryn Peddyc said. “If we only had some way to drive them off that hill.…”

“Good idea, my lord,” Caradoc said.

Nevyn suddenly realized that the captain was looking straight at him. He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered for an answer; he wanted no direct part in the fighting. As if Caradoc could read his thoughts, he smiled and strolled over.

“Let’s have a chat, you and me,” Caradoc said. “Away from the wrangling, like.”

Caradoc slipped an arm through Nevyn’s and firmly guided him into the darkened camp, well out of earshot of the noble-born. With a scowl Nevyn pulled his arm free.

“Cursed if I’ll take any part in a battle!” Nevyn snarled. “May I ask just what you think I could do?”

“Well, when we were bringing the prince to Cerrmor, like,” Caradoc said. “There was a little matter of a battle, the one where Aethan died. And if I remember rightly, all at once the enemy horses started panicking, didn’t they? Like they could see somewhat that we men couldn’t.”

Nevyn growled under his breath.

“I see I remember rightly,” Caradoc said, grinning. “Well, my lord, couldn’t you do the same again?”

“Burcan has too many men. I can’t summon enough spirits to cause the same panic.”

Caradoc swore.

“Although—” Nevyn was struck by a sudden thought. “I don’t know if I can drive them off, but I’ll wager I can make them cursed uncomfortable and in no mood to fight.”

“I’ll take that, my lord. Gladly.”

“I think I can even justify it to my delicate conscience. After all, the fewer the men that fight, the fewer that will die.” Nevyn rubbed his hands together. “Now let me just think for a bit.”

Now that he was recognized as a bard, Maddyn no longer rode to battle with the silver daggers. Besides composing praise songs and death songs, he acted as the troop’s champion in quarrels with chamberlains, provisioners, and other such servitors who might skimp on their food and quartering. Early on the morning of the battle, Maddyn was complaining to Oggyn about the oats issued for the troop’s mounts when Nevyn came strolling up to them, leading his horse.

“Feel like riding with me, Maddo?” Nevyn said. “Those weevils can wait till the battle’s over.”

“What’s this, my lord?” Maddyn said. “Don’t tell me you’re going to join the fighting.”

“Not precisely. Go get your horse.”

When the army rode out, Maddyn and Nevyn rode a little ways behind them. They’d gone no more than a mile when Nevyn gestured to Maddyn to follow, then took out cross-country. They jogged across a pasture, ducked down a narrow lane between fallow fields, then walked their horses up a long low rise where beech trees grew at the crest. From this shelter they could look out across the rolling downs.

“I spotted this ridge while I was scrying,” Nevyn said. “It’s more of a proper hill, and we’ll have a good view.”

They stood indeed on ground a good bit higher than the farther rise where Burcan’s army waited. From this distance the army seemed to be one solid mass, glittering with metal, as if an enormous snake lay stretched out on the crest, or so Maddyn remarked, to sun itself.

“Indeed,” Nevyn said, grinning. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? Not a cloud in the sky.”

“It is.”

“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 swung 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.