Banner of the Damned (59 page)

“We expected them to wait before the bridge. It is a position of strength.” She snorted. “Haldren is supposed to keep them talking until the prince is in place. We can do that on the road, but the rest of the plan requires us to be at the bridge.”

Lnand spoke up from where she and Anhar rode next to us, “No plan survives intact.” Her tone was akin to ours when we scribes remind one another of the First Rule.

“So, what will you do?” I whispered.

“Adapt—and get back to the plan as soon as—”

Haldren jerked his fist up, and the column fell silent.

The air had been still, the banners sagging bundles of black fabric, but as we rode toward the bridge cold drafts of fitful wind stung our faces and lifted the banners. On one side, a wingtip of the screaming eagle flickered, as if in flight. On the other, the flame-like ruff of the fox flared yellow-gold in the glow of our torches.

It was near full dark when we emerged from the trees to find large warriors blocking the road. They stood side by side with shields up, spears grounded, the only movement the flicker of ruddy torchlight. Their number was at least twice ours, probably more. I was sick with dread, unaware of pressing hard against Tesar in an unconscious wish to hide.

“Prince Ivandred of Marloven Hesea,” called a man with a deep voice.

“Who wishes to speak to Ivandred of Marloven Hesea, and why?” Haldren put his hand to his sword hilt in its saddle sheath.

“We are an alliance for peace. Prince Ivandred is invited to confer to the mutual benefit of our alliance and Marloven.”

“Prince Ivandred has not been ordered to speak in the king’s name,” Haldren shouted. “Your alliance is therefore requested to follow established forms. Send a delegation to the king of Marloven Hesea, who speaks for all Marlovens.”

Tesar’s breath hissed in.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“The way they’re looking at each other. For a leader—”

Then a hoarse man shouted, “We demand the peaceful surrender of Prince Ivandred and his party. If you surrender in peace, we promise no harm will come to any.”

“Prince Ivandred only surrenders to a prince. Who among you is his equal in rank? Come forth and state name and land,” Haldren shouted
back, after another tense pause during which warriors shifted and whispered. “If your prince is there, we will ride in peace to yon party,” he added, nodding toward the countless Jayad warriors either standing in clumps or walking slowly back and forth along the west bridge just ahead.

“But… then we’ll be surrounded,” Pelis whispered.

“That’s what we hope they’ll think,” Tesar breathed. “Sssh.”

Lasva said to Haldren, “Where are the negotiators?”

“Who?” Haldren asked, his gaze on the enemy.

“The heralds from both sides, who negotiate distances and signals. If you do not have them, what is to prevent… something horrible?”

Haldren’s jaw sagged as he looked her way, his profile stark against the clouding sky.

Tesar whispered, “Their leader isn’t there. And heralds don’t…”

The shiftings ceased. Hoarse Voice’s tone lightened with satisfaction. “Agreed.”

Nothing made any sense—except that sense of danger.

I could feel Tesar’s body shifting. Later, when I was able to see this experience through others’ minds—and I am coming to the how and the why of that very soon—I chose Haldren’s memory. He could feel the others’ focus as he led our party forward. Haldren did not question his prince. It was right to meet the threat of dishonor by riding for glory, whether the glory be in songs after their deaths, or enjoyed in life.

It may have seemed right to the head and heart, but the body does not anticipate glory. It wants the sweetness of summer days, the warm grip of love, the wind at one’s back, good food eaten with those you trust, and the shared drink of companionship. And so the body fights to survive through shortened breath, acrid sweat despite the wintry air, and the need to pee, though you whisper the Waste Spell again and again.

The body fights the will, but the will must prevail,
and pain is how the will gains strength
—

“Halt there.”

The command rang out from the wall of big shield men ahead. Haldren’s cousin Tdan, who bore the fox banner, smothered a curse.

Haldren reined in, readying his words. He felt the shared will of all his band behind him in their tightened knees and focused gazes, the horses’ coiled rumps and ready necks. He peered to the left, southward along the river bend, marshy land obscured by darkness and rain, then risked a glance to the right, past Tdan’s blade-tipped lance. The torchlight from the big bridge gleamed along the edge of the blade, silver to gold.

Better to think about the sharpened blades and the animals’ ears canted forward than to think about magic. It was rare he saw Prince Ivandred raise magic. It felt sinister, and instinct balked at the prince with only one other, riding alone at the head of an eerie army, as if formed of smoke and bad dreams.

“Prince Ivandred—” came the shout, choking off at a clamor of voices from the direction of the ruined castle.

Heads on both sides turned.

“It’s a trap… a trap!” An enemy’s voice rose to a howl. “They’re attacking from the north!”

“They just spotted the prince’s ghost army,” Tesar breathed. “Ready yourself for a run.”

Shouts rang out in relay, causing a confusion of the milling warriors. Captains summoned their own ridings or bands—twos and threes then nines galloped toward the distant lights, swords and spears brandished. The body of enemies seemed to shift about to face the many lights emerging from the other side of the ruin.

Except for one group, who galloped toward us in two efficient lines, their intention obviously to reinforce those now surrounding us.

Haldren shouted, “Now.”

Tesar grunted as she pulled her oil-soaked hemp out of her coat, slapped it over the blade of her lance, jerked the point out as the torch-bearer rode by, touched his torch to it, and moved on to the next. The hemp flamed up in orange and blue streamers. All this took about ten heartbeats. Ten more and the horses leaped into a gallop.

My memory is a confusion of lights, shouts, some screams, and noise. Fire whirled around me in dizzying circles as the Marlovens spun the lances in their hands, flames streaming. I could make no sense of anything, so I cowered down as small as I could, my fingers gripping the base of the horse’s mane.

As I said, I found myself in a terrifying chaos. But I can tell you what happened.

Most of the enemy had ridden toward what they believed was a massive attack, only to discover darting lights too quick to be held by living hand and shadowy forms charging in a wedge though kicking up no mud. At the lead, screaming a high-pitched “Yi-yiyiyiyiyi!,” rode two Marlovens. In their case, horses and swords and screams were real. The rest were phantoms.

The pair slashed straight through the center of the already wavering line, sending riders scattering. The lines serried and stopped, shocked
faces turning as the living pair galloped toward the bridge, where the rest of us were headed.

The enemies reformed and chased, howling for blood. They could see cartwheels of flame riding down the meager line left to guard access to the bridge. Someone blew a signal on a trumpet, over and over.

Back to us. The horses skidded and neighed, steel clashed, flames whooshed—terrifyingly bright—and we were past the bridge guard. The enemy, impelled by that trumpet command, set fire to the buildings at either end of the bridge. The wind caught the flames and flung them outward. Fire spread at frightening speed.

Too fast. The distinctive smell of singed olives burned in our nostrils: someone had drenched parts of the bridge with barrels of cooking oil. We rode straight through rising walls of flame on either side. The gap between them narrowed fast as flame ate at the oil-soaked wood.

“One… two…” Tesar hunched down. Cursing steadily, she aimed us at a gap and we were through. She galloped on another fifty paces or so then pulled up and shoved me out of the saddle. “Rescue,” she said and galloped back to the bridge, leaving me where I’d fallen.

I scrambled to my feet, staggering as the world slid and jerked, slid and jerked. The bridge fire roared skyward, spreading fast and bright. Silhouettes of locals emerged tentatively from their houses at either end, backtracking hastily as steel-swinging, shouting riders dashed past. In the strengthened light I counted our people. Haldren and the rest had easily defeated the small party at this end of the bridge. It was clear the alliance had never meant for us to get this far.

But we were not all present. Missing were the four bow women, Ivandred and his partner—and Birdy, leading the remounts.

Then I saw them silhouetted in the middle of the bridge, as flames shot upward at either end. Birdy ripped off his tunic and flung it over the eyes of the plunging, flat-eared lead horse. As the animal ceased panicking and stood splay-footed and shivering, Birdy’s hands ran along its neck, soothing, as he looked back and forth, back and forth. Then he flung his arm over his face, gripped the horse by the halter, and with desperate courage plunged toward our end, the other animals pressing after. Five steps and they were obscured by smoke.

A roar went up from the far end. Ivandred and his companion reached the foot. The four bow-women broke formation and formed around them. They charged between the fires, straight at the party defending the foot of the bridge.

A horse screamed. Birdy and the animals would die unless the fire at
my end was doused, and the only way to douse it was by magic. And Ivandred was too busy fighting at the far end.

I knew the spell. I knew what to do. But I’d only played around with candles. I dropped to my knees, trembling fingers shaping the first part of the spell meant to consume flame. My lips began the words but almost at once a sense of heat roared in my head, my nostrils filled with the scent of singed hair and silk—

Sip the cup
. No, bigger than a cup. Huge! I imagined an enormous cistern of steel, rapidly gabbled the spell while
seeing
flame pour into my imaginary cistern, like a waterfall in reverse—the cistern grew wider and wider, but I could hold it, I
would
hold it.

Heat intensified, my eyes burned—with the last frantic gasp of control I snapped the last gesture and word, and collapsed into the grass, blinded and retching.

Gradually the waves of nausea diminished, leaving me aware that I was not blind. I lay in darkness, staring up at smoke-blurred stars. As I comprehended that, the last of the smoke blew past, and cold spots bloomed on my face like wintry kisses: snow. Clouds were moving in.

Galloping horses reached us. “Here she is,” someone snapped in exasperation.

“Orders?”

Ivandred’s low, urgent voice, “If they chase, we’ll form up. But I don’t think they will. Let’s not tempt them. Someone pick up the princess’s runner. From the smell, she was overcome by smoke.”

My head throbbed, bringing the nausea back in a throat-stinging surge as someone hauled me to my feet. Not Tesar—the sweat-scent was male. I reached blindly to steady myself, my fingers closing on a hank of what I took to be horse hair, but softer, and loose, one end sticky, the smell an evil metallic tang. When Ivandred passed up the line, torch flaring, his horse’s sides steaming and flecked with white, I discovered that the thing hooked to the saddle was a part of a human scalp with long hair hanging in a coil.

That time I did not manage the Waste Spell.

“

Tesar’s voice roused me, concerned, but defensive. “I don’t understand. I set her down well upwind of the fires.”

“The wind changed. It must have. It was fierce on the bridge. All directions. I think now I know what ‘firestorm’ means.” Birdy was within arm’s reach, judging by his voice.

Wearily I opened my eyes, as Birdy crouched in front of me, his face smeared with soot right to the absurd ears sticking out from his filthy hair that hung down in unkempt strings. “How badly are you burned, Em? We checked you over and didn’t see any scorched flesh.”

“She must have breathed smoke.” Lnand was hoarse. “Haldren said there was smoke rising off her clothes when they first found her. She stank of it. If there’s a burn, we have salve.”

“Breathed it,” I whispered. “No burns.”

“Try to sleep.”

I shut my eyes, aware of the sway and jolt of a wagon for about two breaths.

I woke to the sound of two men conversing softly in Sartoran.

“… and that one breathed smoke. She’ll cough it out in a day or two.” That was Ivandred.

An unfamiliar voice responded pleasantly. “So these here are the pair you summoned me to see?”

“Yes. Four died. I will not lose these two.”

Light flared, not the orange of flame, but the clear silver of a glow globe. I saw only bales of hay.

The newcomer still sounded amused. “This boy’s shoulder is in shards. Even for me it presents a challenge.”