The Dragon’s Path (10 page)

“Good luck, my lord,” his squire said. Geder nodded awkwardly in his helm, turned his mount to follow the others, and started down toward the battle. His little gelding whickered nervously. The ants grew larger, and the enemy banners grew clear. He saw where Kalliam’s archers were set, hiding behind blinds of wood and leather. Kalliam raised his shield, and the knights stopped. Geder tried to twist back, to see the swordsmen behind them, but his armor forbade it. He squeezed his eyes closed. It was just like a tourney. Joust first, then a little melee. Even a rich mercenary company wasn’t likely to have many heavy cavalry. He’d be fine. He needed to piss.

The horns blew the martial doubled note of the charge. Kalliam and the other men shouted and spurred their mounts. Geder did the same, and the tired old gelding that had carried him for days and weeks became a beast made of wind. He felt himself shouting, but the world was a single roar. The archers’ blinds flickered by him and were gone, and then the enemy was there; not knights or heavy cavalry, but pikemen bringing their great spears to bear. Sir Makiyos barreled into the line, smashing it, and Geder angled his own attack to take advantage of the chaos.

A horse was screaming. Geder’s lance struck a pikeman, the blow wrenching his shoulder, and then he was past the line and into the melee. He dropped his lance, drew his sword, and started hewing away at whatever came close. To his right, one of the Veren twins was being pulled from his horse by half a dozen mercenary swordsmen. Geder yanked his mount toward the falling knight, but then his own swordsmen appeared, pouring through the broken line. He saw his squire loping along, head low and knife at the ready, but there were no men in plate to knock over and let his Dartinae finish. The mass of fighting men pushed to the south. Geder turned
again, ready to find someone, but the mercenaries seemed reluctant to press the attack.

He didn’t see where the bolt came from. One moment, he was scanning the battle for a likely target, the next a small tree had taken root in his leg, the thick black wood punching through the plate and into the meat of his thigh. Geder dropped his sword and screamed, scrabbling at the bolt in agony. Something hit his shield hard enough to push him back. A drumbeat rolled from the south, low and deep as thunder. The gelding shifted unexpectedly, and Geder felt himself starting to slide out of his saddle. The hand that steadied him was Jorey Kalliam’s.

“Where did you come from?” Geder asked.

Kalliam didn’t answer. There was blood on the man’s face and spattered across his sheild, but he didn’t seem injured. His eyes were fixed on the battle, or something beyond it, and his expression was carved from ice. Trying to put aside his pain, Geder followed the boy’s gaze. There, dancing above the fray, new banners were flying. The five blue circles of Maccia.

“Never mind you,” Geder squeaked. “Where did
they
come from?”

“Can you ride?”

Geder looked down. His gelding’s pale side was red with blood, and the flow coming from the bolt in his leg looked wide as a river. A wave of dizziness made him clutch at his saddle. Men could die of leg wounds like that. He was sure he’d heard of men dying from leg wounds. Was he about to die, then?

“Palliako!”

He looked up. The world seemed to swim a little. Jorey Kalliam glanced from the line of battle now surging back toward them to Geder’s face.

“I’m hurt,” Geder said.

“You are a knight of the empire,” Kalliam said, and the power in his voice wasn’t anger. “Can you ride, sir?”

Geder felt some part of the other man’s strength come into him. The world steadied and Geder steadied with it.

“I can… I can ride.”

“Then go. Find Lord Ternigan. Tell him the Maccian banners are flying on the west end of the line. Tell him we need help.”

“I will,” he said and picked up his reins. Kalliam’s mount shifted toward the fight, snorting, but the young knight paused.

“Palliakio! Go directly to Lord Ternigan.
Directly.
”

“Sir?”

“Not to Klin.”

Their eyes met for a moment, and an understanding passed between them. Kalliam didn’t trust their captain any more than he did. Relief and gratitude surged in Geder’s heart, and then surprise at the feelings.

“I understand,” he said. “I’ll bring help.”

Kalliam nodded, turned, and charged for the melee. Geder spurred his horse, riding east across the field. He struggled to unstrap his shield, gauntleted fingers and jouncing horse making the leather and buckles unwieldy. He managed to free his arm at last, and leaned forward, urging the beast faster. An hour ago, the valley had been grass and autumn wildflowers. Now it was churned mud and the roar of brawling men.

Geder squinted. The mist was gone now, but the wet banners were still darkened and clinging to their poles. He had to find the gold and crimson of House Ternigan. He had to do it now. All around him, men lay in the muck, dead or wounded. The screams of soldiers and horses cut through the air. But the banner of the king’s marshal was nowhere.

Geder shouted curses, shifting his gaze one way then the other. He felt cold. His bleeding leg was heavy, blood soaking his brigandine as quickly as the strength left his flesh. Every minute that passed made it less likely Kalliam and the others would survive, and his vision was starting to dance gold and darkness around the edges. He tried to stand higher in his stirrups, but his injured leg couldn’t support him. He drove his horse forward. There were the banners of Flor and Rivercourt, Masonhalm and Klin…

Klin. There, not fifty yards from where he sat, the banner of Sir Alan Klin flew wet and limp over a knot of fighting men. And there among them, the huge black warhorse with its red barding. Geder felt a tug. If it was a mistake, if Klin hadn’t
meant
to send them to the slaughter, then help was there. Right there. But if it had been his intention, and Geder went to him now, Kalliam and the others were dead. He rode on. His leg was numb. His mouth was dry. There, the banners of Estinford, Corenhall, Dannick.

Ternigan.

He spurred his horse and the gelding leapt forward, running toward the knot of battle that swirled around the banner. He cursed Ternigan for leading the charge instead of hanging back to direct the battle from the rear. He cursed Sir Alan Klin for sending him and Kalliam into the enemy’s trap. He cursed himself for having taken off his shield, and for having been wounded, and for not moving fast. An enemy swordsman lurched up out of the muck, and Geder rode him down. He smelled pine smoke. Something, somewhere was burning. The gelding was shaking under him, exhausted, trembling. He apologized silently to the beast and put spurs to it again.

He barreled into the fighting men like a stone thrown through a window. Swordsmen scattered around him, as many
of them Antean as Vanai. Ten feet from the bannerman, Lord Ternigan stood high in his saddle, his sword shining in his hand, and soldiers five men deep keeping the enemy from reaching him.

“Lord Ternigan!” Geder shouted. “Ternigan!”

The roar of battle drowned him out. The marshal moved forward, in toward the line where the battle was thickest. A deep crimson rage rolled over Geder’s vision. Kalliam and the others were fighting, dying, for this man. The least the bastard could do was pay some attention. He pushed his shuddering mount forward, pressing through the marshal’s guard by raw determination. The battlefield narrowed to the one lord on his mount. The edges of Geder’s vision contracted, like he was riding through a tunnel that led to the world. When he came within three yards, he shouted again.

“Maccia, my Lord Ternigan. Maccia’s come on the west end, and they’re killing us!”

This time, the marshal heard. His head snapped toward Geder, the high, noble forehead furrowed. Geder waved his arms and pointed to the west.
Don’t look at me. Look at Maccia.

“Who are you, sir?” Lord Ternigan said. His voice was as deep as a drum and echoed a bit. The world around it seemed quieter than it should have.

“Sir Geder Palliako. Jorey Kalliam’s sent me. West end’s not just mercenaries, my lord. Maccia’s there. Can’t hold them back. Kalliam… Kalliam sent me. You have to help him.”

Ternigan shouted something over his shoulder, and the horns blared again, close by and powerful as being slapped in the jaw. Geder opened his eyes again, surprised to find that he’d closed them. People were moving around him. Knights rode past him, streaming toward the west. At least
he thought that was west. Lord Ternigan was beside him, holding him hard by one elbow.

“Can you fight, sir?” the Marshal of the Kingdom of Antea asked him from a long way away.

“I can,” Geder said, turning in his saddle. Slick with blood, his foot slipped free of the stirrup. Churned mud rose up, but the world went black before it reached him.

F
or the midday meal, the caravan stopped at a clearing with a wide, slow brook. The thin boy, Mikel his name was, sat on the fallen log at Yardem’s side. Like the Tralgu, he wore his leathers open at the throat. They both leaned forward over their plates of beans and sausage. The boy’s shoulders were set as if bound by muscle they didn’t possess and his movements had a slow, deliberate power that his frame didn’t justify. Yardem tilted his head down a degree to look at Mikel. With the same gravity, the boy tilted his head up.

“Captain,” Yardem said, his ears pressed back. “Make him stop.”

Marcus, cross-legged on the ground, fought back a smile. “Stop what?”

“He’s been doing this for days, sir.”

“Acting like a soldier, you mean?”

“Acting like
me,
” Yardem said.

Mikel made a low noise in his throat. Marcus had to cough to cover his laugh.

“We hired these people to act as guards,” Marcus said. “They’re acting as guards. Only natural they’d look to us for the details.”

Yardem grunted and turned to face the boy. When the boy met his gaze, the Tralgu deliberately flicked an ear.

The forest around them now was oak and ash, the trees taller than ten men. A scrub fire had come through within the last few years, scorching the bark and burning down the underbrush without ever reaching the wide canopy above. Marcus could imagine smoke rising up through green summer leaves. Now the roadside litter was damp, the fallen leaves black with mold and on their way to becoming soil for the next year’s weeds. Only the leaves on the road itself were dry. At the eastern end of the clearing, a wide-eyed stone Southling king in battle array and a six-pointed crown was half entombed in an oak. The old bark had swallowed half of the solemn face, roots tilted the wide stone pediment a degree. Vines draped the stone shoulders. Marcus didn’t know what the marker had been meant to commemorate.

For almost a week, the caravan had been making good progress. The road was well traveled, local farmers keeping it for the most part clean, but there had still been whole leagues where their way was covered in newly fallen leaves. The rustling of horses’ hooves and the crackle of the cart wheels had been loud enough to drown out conversation. The ’van master wasn’t bad for a religious. For the most part, Marcus could ignore the scriptures read over the evening meals. If the Timzinae happened to pick something particularly hard to listen to—sermons on family or children or the assurances that God was just or anything that touched too closely on what had happened to his wife and daughter—Marcus ate quickly and took a long private walk out ahead on the road. He called it scouting, and the ’van master didn’t take offense. Other travelers had joined with the ’van and parted company again without more than a look from Yardem or himself to keep the peace. Except that they weren’t yet a quarter of the way to the pass that marked the edge of Birancour, the job was going better than expected.

Marcus chewed his last bite of sausage slowly. The dozen carts filled half the clearing, horses and mules with feedbags over their heads or else being led to and from the brook to drink. The carters knew their business for the most part. The old man driving the tin ore was a little deaf and the boy with the high cart of wool cloth was either new to the trade or an idiot or both, but they were the worst. And his acting troupe had worked out magnificently. If he looked at the trees, not considering the people at all, he could still pick out the guards in the sides of his vision, just by their swagger.

By the side of the road, the long-haired woman, Cary, stood with her arms crossed and a huge horn-and-sinew bow slung across her back. Likely she couldn’t have drawn the damn thing, but she wore it like the companion of years. Sandr, the young lead, walked among the carts, head high and brow furrowed. He’d been telling stories to the carters about how he’d broken a foot jousting in an Antean tourney, and had become so familiar with the tale he’d adopted a barely noticable limp to go with it. And then there, sitting with the ’van master’s fat wife, was his cunning man, Master Kit, without whom Yardem would even now be failing to keep Vanai from falling. Without whom Marcus would have been jailed or killed.

The ’van master’s whistle brought Marcus back to himself, and he squinted up into the thin patch of high, white cloud that showed through the canopy above them. Time was harder to judge in the shadows of a forest, but he guessed the meal had run long. Well, his contract was to get them all into Carse safely. On schedule wasn’t his problem. Marcus cleaned his plate with a crust of bread and pulled himself up to standing.