Springwar (55 page)

The horse bucked as blood fountained. The man flinched back—and started to slide sideways. Rann stabbed at his throat—and hit something solid, but whether bone or steel he wasn’t certain. He saw the man’s foot wave into the air, and by then was jerking his horse away from the injured steed—and toward the downed soldier. Trained warhorse hooves found the Ixtian as he tried to rise. But by then Rann was parrying other blades.

He stabbed one inattentive man where he sat, then sliced neatly through another’s neck, and laid open the thigh of a third before a shout from Lykkon informed him that he was separating himself from his group. He retreated. In that too-brief respite, he saw that Lykkon was also acquitting himself decently, with deft if workmanlike strokes against a man older and larger than he. Myx, who had little use for horses,
had jumped off his and was having at whatever foes in similar straits he could find. Which, though brave, put him at too much disadvantage. “Get back on your horse,” Rann yelled, as he passed, only to see Lykkon likewise unhorsed—though not by choice, his mount having grown a pair of arrows in its hip. The boy slipped in mud when he landed and fell, whereupon a pair of Ixtians, also afoot, bore down upon him. He tried to rise and slipped again, but by then Rann was there, wheeling his horse between Lykkon and the startled men, then spinning it around again to slash at them. Lykkon, who tended to think very fast indeed, needed no prompting to grab Rann’s hand as he finally made it to his feet. And though neither he nor Rann was particularly strong, both were lithe and nimble, and with fear as goad, Rann got the younger man up behind him.

Riff galloped in on the left, and together they hurried toward the ring of guards that had been forced uphill to the right by another push from the bridge. He saw the King—fighting now, though the Ixtians seemed to be avoiding him. Gynn’s sword flashed down all clean and silver then rose again, rank with dripping red. A line of droplets flicked across the King’s face. He licked at them absently, then saw Rann watching and grinned. “Regroup,” he yelled. “Make a wedge.”

Rann found himself face-to-face with Gynn. “You’re a fool,” the King snapped. “A brave one, but I can’t risk you. Get to the back. All of you.”

For the briefest moment Rann thought to defy him, but then he saw the glint in his Sovereign’s eyes, and remembered that he was the King of the land and people of Eron and that he was Gynn’s to command, and so he complied.

And by the time they’d regrouped, and Lykkon had vaulted atop a riderless horse that happened by, and they’d got Myx on one to stay, they were once more spurring forward.

Merryn had managed to get Avall roughly a quarter of the way back to the camp. It wasn’t the shortest route, but it was
the only one she dared, because of the precipitous terrain. That it also permitted a constant view of the battlefield was not lost on her, either. Not that it helped to look that way. It was a disaster. Gynn should’ve made them come to him on the heights, where he’d have had the advantage.

But that would’ve ceded South Gorge to Ixti, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. She wondered idly if the fact that Argen-el had more holdings here than either of the other septs had anything to do with it. Probably not; Gynn could be coldly logical at need. But still she wondered.

At least he was alive, and as best she could tell so were Rann and the rest. It was hard to see, because of the distance. And because the added exertion of lugging her brother along made her sweat, which, in spite of her padded coif, ran into her eyes.

She paused to wipe them, leaving Avall propped against a convenient oak. This was a particularly good vantage point and she risked a moment with the distance lenses. Right to left—and there was the King—and—

She sensed movement as much as saw it: something from the corner of her eye. There to the left, beyond the main field of battle. Over by the gorge, in fact.

She swung the lenses that way, fighting with the recalcitrant focusing gear. A project for Smith for sure, if they ever survived this. For Argen-el, in fact. Maybe for Gynn, if this cost him his throne.

She had it now—and wished she hadn’t. Swearing vividly, she looked up, as though her naked eyes would deny what augmented senses swore was true.

Men were pouring out of South Gorge. More to the point, they were pouring out of it on the
north
side—Eron’s side. Nor did she need more than an instant’s pause to determine that these were not allies come to give aid. Not with those gold-washed helms and sylken banners.

But how—?

And then she managed a closer look at the style of dress and armor those in the forefront sported.

And knew.

Sailors’ garb.

Which suggested two possible options. One was that Barrax had launched a fleet in midwinter, to sail around the Finger of Rhynn and meet with him today. Which was an all-but-impossible feat of coordination—especially since she had a hunch that Barrax hadn’t made his decision to attack until it was too late to send a fleet anywhere.

But Eron had a fair-sized fleet in Half Gorge, both a fishing fleet and a few warships. And Half Gorge had fallen. It wouldn’t have been difficult for any sailors among Barrax’s troops to sail down to the sea, which was clear this far south this time of year, and then back up the coast to where the Ri-Ormill flowed out of South Gorge at Tir-Vonees. Maybe they’d have taken the city, but there’d probably have been word of such a thing, or at least a telltale smudge of smoke on the horizon. But they could’ve slipped by in the night—especially in Eronese ships. Or they could’ve landed up the coast from the Ri, and marched overland the whole length of the gorge. It would’ve been difficult, but it could’ve been done in the amount of time they’d had.

In any event, they were here.

A second force, moving to flank Gynn’s already outnumbered and dispirited army.

And thanks to the screen of smoke, she doubted anyone had seen them. Probably not even Strynn.

She had to get word to Gynn
now
.

But how?

“Avall,” she snapped, for all that he was a span away, still leaning groggily against a tree. Eyes open, and breathing, but not functioning much beyond that. “Avall—if you’ve never done anything in your life you have to do this one thing. You have to warn them.”

“Warn them …?” he mumbled, looking up at her as though that effort took all the strength he possessed. She shivered, and not from the cold that still ravaged her.

She grabbed him savagely, heaved him up, slipped behind him, and took his face roughly in her hands, peering over his shoulder, her head close beside him. “Do you see that? That’s Barrax’s army. A whole second force we didn’t know existed. And it’s going to cut Gynn off in about a finger. Do you
think you might be able to do one more thing, even if it kills you? Do you think you
might
be able to alert Rann?”

“Rann …?” His eyes cleared, then glazed again. “Too tired. Too tired …”

He sagged earthward in a way that alarmed her, but she dragged him up again, ruthlessly. And as she did, her finger brushed the gem, which had become fouled in a fold of his surcoat. She flinched from it reflexively, before she realized it had … responded to that contact. It scared her, given what the thing could do—but she knew she had no choice.

Slumping to the ground with her brother still before her, she set her back against the tree, clamped the gem in her fist, felt a shock of pain as the barb stabbed into her flesh—and braced herself for whatever occurred.

She didn’t know much about the gems at all. But one thing she did know was that they responded to will. And she had that to spare—especially now, when she wanted two things in the world: to alert the King, and then get down there and fight. Avall … could take care of himself. And if he couldn’t, the gem would.

And then it didn’t matter, because reality was shifting and she felt everything with heightened clarity. Avall weighed as much as ten men, yet was weightless, and the simple fact of that weight was a wonder and a glory. It was not unlike an imphor high, but with more control.

Almost she lost herself in wonder. Fortunately, her eyes had gone right on observing, though she seemed to see much better now. And so she shut her lids, took a deep breath, and simply
wanted
. Wanted Rann to hear her—or Gynn—or whoever might happen to heed her.

For the briefest instant she was nowhere—the same nowhere in which she’d almost died—and that terrified her. But she also knew it could be survived, and that on the other side, and not far away at all, lay Strynn. Strynn would help her. Strynn knew what to do, how to master all this impossible mental complexity—

Strynn …

Merryn …?

Strynn?

Where’s Avall?

Alive. That last foolish effort cost him. But … Strynn, I’ve no time for this. Tell Rann to warn the King that his east flank is under attack. Tell him they’ve come up the gorge in secret. Tell him—

Strynn’s answering surge of panic all but broke their link, as she, along with her bond-sister, gazed to the west. She saw nothing, but she trusted Merryn—Merryn felt that trust so strongly it was almost as though she had lost herself.

Tell the King to sound retreat now!

You already have
, came another contact altogether. It took her a moment to recognize, but she’d somehow reached the High King himself. He seemed confused by that communication—at the force of it, apparently. But he also showed no inclination to hesitate. Signaling his trumpeter, he bellowed that awful word.

“Retreat.”

Merryn heard it with Strynn’s ears, and then with her own as it reached her. And with her mission accomplished, she rode that sound back to her body.

And had another shock.

Avall had passed out in her arms.

A chill shook her, but she shrugged it off and stood. And this time, she managed to sling her brother across her shoulders. It was a long walk back to camp thus encumbered, and her legs were already protesting. But she could do anything if she knew how long she’d have to do it.

Besides, even if she gave her life, she doubted Eron would ever forgive her for what she’d done already.

What she’d told the foe.

What had cost them War-Hold.

And maybe the rest of Eron.

A
completely unnatural quiet had settled upon the cloister. Not the true quiet of death—or the soft quiet of snow falling on more snow, with no wind. But certainly an unnatural silence for what had, until shortly before sunrise, been an armed camp. Maybe it still was, but Eddyn could see nothing through the tiny barred opening in his door save the empty cloister yard, and that but dimly, for it was approaching midnight.

All he knew was that something had changed. The casual energy that usually pulsed out there, even this late, in the form of impromptu weapons drills and other interchanges, had vanished. Maybe there were still guards about, he didn’t know. Eight, maybe the whole army had departed the previous night and he’d been left here to die of slow starvation with the other prisoners, whose number he didn’t know, save that somewhere in this complex of courtyards and buildings Elvix, Olrix, and Tozri still survived. And Merryn—he hoped. And, by report, the king’s son himself, under some kind of sentence of treason he’d been unable, after all this time, to understand.

It was nice, though, in a way. The weather had turned warm and dry, after the cold damp of the winter, and he’d overheard enough from his various guards to know that Barrax had been waiting for something to happen before launching his attack.

Probably for the vale above South Gorge to be a vale again, instead of a springtime lake. He bet Barrax hadn’t thought of that. In fact, the floods were not a regular occurrence, but depended on how much snow fell where, melted when, and how fast.

Why, this might even be the silence of defeat—for Ixti. Maybe Gynn’s forces had massacred Barrax’s so utterly there was no one left to tell the tale of prisoners.

Eddyn snorted disgust at his own fancy and slumped back against the single pillow they’d allowed him, at the head of his narrow cot. He poured himself a mug of water from the jug they’d brought last night, but it was tepid and flat-tasting. And if things went as they might, he’d probably be wise to ration it anyway.

Perhaps he dozed, relishing the late-night silence.

He awoke to the slap of footsteps echoing down the arcade, someone in a hurry, but not quite running. Someone still armored, to judge by the creak of leather and the rustling jingle of mail.

Someone angry, too—because Eddyn had himself been angry often enough to know how angry footsteps sounded.

He wondered who the recipient of all that rage would be.

But was still sufficiently groggy to be surprised when a key rattled in the lock and an armed man strode into his cell.