The Fall of Neskaya (42 page)

Then the moment of clear vision passed, and together they sat in the miniature walled world of the garden. She still held his hand, her body curving toward his. Rosy color, as clear as a summer’s dawn, tinted her skin. They were so close, he could feel her breath, could taste the faintly spicy scent she wore, could see the faint pulsation at her throat.

With his free hand, Coryn cupped Taniquel’s cheek. She closed her eyes. He realized as his fingers brushed her face that she had some measure of empathy. Untrained, instinctive, it swept all through her senses. She felt not only his touch, the warmth and texture of his hand on hers, the smell of his sun-warmed skin, all the things her body experienced, and she also felt his emotions.

Without thought, he brushed her lips with his, or perhaps it was she who moved to meet him. A feeling he had never known, a tenderness so exquisite it bordered on pain, unfolded in him. Her heart opened to him, a mirror to his own.

Never in all his years of Tower work had he experienced a joining so complete, so uncomplicated, without reservation or condition. She held nothing back, matching his passion at the exact instant it arose in him. Time lost all meaning.

The rustle of a leaf, the snap of a twig brought him back to the day. Coryn opened his eyes to see a tiny bird take wing. The fingers of one hand were still entwined with hers, while the other lay gently along the side of her face.

Dark lashes fluttered open to reveal eyes filled with luminous tears. He had never seen anything so beautiful as those eyes. In some other world, in some other life, he thought, he could drown himself in them forever.

Taniquel blinked, sniffed, pulled away. He straightened up. The muscles of his lower back twinged from leaning forward too long.

“I . . .” Her voice failed her.

Coryn thought that if she reached out to him, he would not be able to refuse her and they would both be lost, all duty forsaken. Instead, she lifted her hands to her hair and drew out a copper pin, gracefully curved and topped with a filigree set with tiny sparkling stones. Around it twined several delicate ribbons of the same russet silk as her gown, ending in tiny knotted rosettes. She held it out to him.

His fingers closed around the pin, still warm. Several long black hairs had been caught in it.

In remembrance of this gift of time
. . . Her mind brushed against his.

As Coryn slipped the pin into the inner pocket of his robe, he touched age-worn fabric. Since the day he left Verdanta Castle for Tramontana, there had not been an hour when his mother’s handkerchief had left him. Now he drew out the folded square of embroidery. Without a word, he pressed it into her hand. There was no need to explain, to tell her what it meant to him. She already held his heart, as he did hers. Their bond went beyond words.

For a long moment, an eternity of heartbeats, a single breath, neither moved.

“Lady Taniquel!
Vai domna!
” A woman’s voice called from a distance. The nurse.

She stirred, and the moment shattered. He sat immobile as she gathered up her skirts and headed back toward the castle.

C
louds, layered so thin and fine that the sky itself seemed white, cast a filmy veil over the rising Bloody Sun. Morning mist burned off from the open fields of Drycreek, although the surrounding heights remained shrouded in white. As the night’s chill lifted, the mingled scents of grasses, summer field flowers, and warm earth drifted on the gentle breeze. A hawk hovered overhead while mice scurried for their burrows. In the distance, a family of deer bounded for the safety of the wooded slopes.

Belisar Deslucido sat on his massive red-gold stallion on the knoll which was the highest point of the valley and waited for the battle to unfold below him. As the horse shifted under him, he yawned and rubbed the dregs of sleep from his eyes.

The Ambervale forces had arrived late the night before, with barely enough time to slaughter and cook the livestock seized from the little trading village on the river. They’d been delayed by the guerrilla forces which had lately come down from the Verdanta Mountains, stinging and harrying like a nest of scorpion-ants. Unlike the poisonous insects, they posed no serious threat, certainly not to disciplined troops, but they had delayed his passage.

In preparation for the campaign, Damian Deslucido had moved his headquarters to Acosta and from there, launched the assault. Belisar should have been much deeper into Hastur lands when this battle occurred, so that even a stalemate would win him miles of borderland. His general, The Yellow Wolf, insisted that it was better to meet the Hastur forces here in the foothills rather than on the rolling plains where their greater numbers and easy supply lines would work to their advantage.

Now The Wolf had ridden down to his army, advancing the left wing, holding men behind the center in reserve. The natural contours of the land gave them partial cover, although they were not yet in the best position. Day and the enemy had come upon them too soon.

A few changes in plans and times were mere details, dependent on chance circumstance. Victory must be his in the end because his cause was just. Over the last few years, the goal of unifying Darkover had taken on a life and momentum of its own, like some raw elemental force.

Belisar felt restless, but perhaps it was only his resentment at being up here, at a safe distance, instead of leading his own men as he had wished.

“With power comes responsibility,” Damian had told him. “A king cannot risk his life like any ordinary soldier.”

“I am not yet king,” Belisar had said.

“And if you are killed in battle, you never will be!” After that, there was nothing more to be said.

Rumail, in the hooded gray cloak which had now become his customary garment, sat on his mule a little apart from Belisar, head bent to speak privately with the two
laranzu’in
from Tramontana. He’d been fussing over something all morning.

From the fingers of low-lying fog, the Hastur men approached in units, both mounted and on foot. A rider broke away from the foremost troops, white banner held aloft. Ambervale men intercepted him and, after some discussion, escorted him to the hill. Belisar watched them approach, amused.

A parley?
What was there to parley about, except to delay the day’s work?

The messenger, an earnest young officer, did not dismount but lowered the white standard in greeting. His mount blew froth from its nostrils and shook its head.

“In the name of Rafael Alar Julian Hastur, King and second of that name, I command you to cease this unlawful incursion of armed forces on our lands and depart forthwith to your own country.” The youthful voice rang out unwavering, a singer’s voice.

Belisar said, “And if I do not? If it pleases me to occupy these lands?”

The officer wet his lips. “Then by strength of arms, His Majesty will enforce the sovereignty of his territory.”

“And we will have a battle? Good!” At the messenger’s startled response, Belisar threw his head back and laughed. “Gods, boy, what do you think this is about? Does your high and mighty Majesty think we came all this way for polite conversation?”

Belisar then sent the signal for The Yellow Wolf to advance to the point of maximum advantage. He added the order to take the young messenger prisoner. “Burn the white flag. Make sure they can see it down below.
That
will be their answer.”

The boy, to his credit, had enough presence of mind not to make a fool out of himself with useless protest.

Belisar’s horse pranced in place, scenting the rising adrenaline. For what seemed like hours but were actually only minutes, the Ambervale forces crept forward.

The Hastur men held their position. Belisar could almost hear their banners flapping in the wind and the horses whinnying, harnesses jangling. He smelled their rank, intoxicating sweat. Part of him wished he was down there with them, a battle cry swelling in his throat, the reins held fast between his fingers, his mount quivering with eagerness.

Below, a wordless yell pierced the shuddering tension. Belisar did not care which side it came from. It was time; the battle demanded its own birth. Both forces rushed forward like arrows released from bows too long held taut. Within moments, dust churned by the charging cavalry rose in billows. War cries and neighing pierced the clamor. The red-gold stallion snorted and pranced beneath him, pulling at the bit.

Through breaks in the billowed dust, he caught sight of the fighting, colors and banners. Spear points glittered in the sun. One horse ran riderless and another reared so high it toppled backward.

Seen from this vantage, the battle moved with agonizing slowness, although Belisar knew the action on the ground was frenzied. Swords slashing, spears thrusting, horses rearing, death always an instant away, a flash at the edge of vision, that instinct that made a man turn and miss a blow by the breadth of a hair. The music of steel against steel. The mingled taste of dust and blood. The soaring elation which sizzled along every nerve as if lightning laced his entire body. His heart pounded, thinking of it, lusting for it.

The main body of the Hastur force had come forward, engaged with the center and left wing, leaving their flank relatively unguarded.

Yes! We have them!
Exultation washed through every fiber of his body, more intoxicating than wine.

The Yellow Wolf’s reserve troops surged forward. A noise rose up from them like no other. A thousand battle cries merged into a single roar. The lions which roamed the deserts beyond the Dry Towns might sound like that as they surrounded a gazelle.

For an instant, Belisar wondered what the Hastur men must be thinking as these fresh troops bore down on them, as they turned to fight, perhaps back-to-back with their brothers, knowing that at last they must fall. Would they curse the King who had led them into ruin? Or would they fight unthinking to the last?

Rumail had thrown his hood back from his face to scan the sky. His eyes narrowed and Belisar sensed his concentration, seeking to pierce the clouds.

“There!” Rumail cried, and pointed aloft.

A graceful V-shape shot into a patch of blue, wheeling, circling downward.

“What is it? A hawk? There was one earlier. Or
kyorebni
come to feast on what we leave?”

“Sentry-bird.” Rumail’s voice was grim.

No ordinary bird flew above them. Somewhere in the Hastur party, a
laranzu
or perhaps one of those accursed
leronis
women had linked telepathically with the bird and could see everything the bird saw.

Still, what did it matter? Seeing the jaws of the trap close shut about them would not save Rafael’s forces. The Wolf’s plan was unfolding brilliantly. His reserves would do their work and the Hastur men would be forced to retreat or be cut to ribbons. Either way, such a resounding defeat would demoralize the enemy and do as much damage as the loss of territory and fighting men. Belisar tasted victory, honey-sweet.

He would be magnanimous at the end. It was not necessary to destroy Hastur utterly at this time, only to beat him back so that he was no longer a threat, so that treaties and alliances could be dictated on King Damian’s own terms. Eventually, the kingdom would be absorbed into Greater Ambervale. Then no other Domain would dare challenge them.

Horns sounded below, perhaps the signal to retreat. Belisar could not be sure, for the pattern was unfamiliar and distorted by the uproar of the battle.

Sure enough, the Hastur men began falling back. They were good soldiers, for instead of turning and running, they regrouped even as they gave way. From the manner in which they clustered together, he imagined their walking wounded in the center. He admired men with such discipline in the face of certain defeat.

Back and back the Hastur units crept, blue-and-silver pennants flying. Ambervale swept after them, closing, harrying. Belisar heard more horns, this time his own, giving the brassy signal to charge.

“The day is ours!” Belisar cried. He thrust his sword aloft. His horse leaped forward, eager enough for both of them. He hauled on the reins and circled back to his position.

In turning, he glimpsed Rumail’s frown. Let him fret. Not all battles were won by wizardry, although it was good to hold such weapons in reserve.

As Belisar returned his attention to the fields below, something struck him as subtly odd. For a long instant, he could not put a name to it, then he saw. He had been so filled with the exultation of victory, that he had not noticed how deliberate the Hastur withdrawal had been.

They did not move like defeated men struggling to keep themselves and their wounded fellows alive. No, they moved too smoothly, in too tight an order. Their movements reminded him, in a bizarre way, of an exotic Dry Towns dancer enticing her patrons, skipping backward, smiling, gesturing for them to follow. . . .

The Ambervale troops, screaming in triumph, came flooding after their foe, flanks and rear ragged, all attention focused on their prey. They rushed down the open valley between the fog-shrouded hills.

Rumail stared at the sky once more, at the sentry-bird which was no longer visible in the haze. When he turned to Belisar, urgency twisted his features.

“Retreat! Call the retreat!”

“What are you talking about?” Belisar said.

More horns blared out, shrill and eerie, distorted. Their echoes filled the valley. Belisar’s blood ran cold, hearing it. It took all his self-control not to clap his hands over his ears. If Zandru and all his horned demons had gone hunting on the face of the earth, surely they would sound like this.

Below, the Hastur forces continued to fall back, even faster now. Ambervale men paused in their attack and looked around, as if searching for the source of the sound.

Rumail seized Belisar’s forearm in an iron grasp. His breath hissed through his teeth. “Send a rider to The Yellow Wolf. Now, before it is too late.”