The Fall of Neskaya (55 page)

They hoped to pin me down before I could mobilize another attack, but I stole the march on them,
Damian thought.
Like a spear, like an arrow, I will outrun them.

The crossing took hours, for the rest of the day. The archers melted away with the gathering shadows of night-fall.

Damian pushed his forces across the remaining stretch of Acosta fields and into the Venza Hills. As they came into the funnel pass, the heavens seemed to gather themselves for the battle. Clouds swept white and gleaming, the sky a sheet of polished silver. Radiance saturated the air. No breeze stirred, but the army made its own storm. Damian poised on its crest, glorying in the sense of vast, unstoppable power. He had not only men and swords, but the rightness of the day, that vision which made victory inevitable. Darkover
must
be united and these petty bickering squabbles put to an end.

A mote of blackness broke the brilliant sky, no—two. Squinting, Damian made them out to be birds. Large hawks, he thought, or scavenger
kyorebni
, scenting the battle to come. They descended, hovered, then dropped even farther so that he could make out their pinions outstretched to catch the air currents. For a long moment, they hardly seemed to move. He held his breath, remembering his own boyhood dreams of flying. Then one plunged to begin a sweeping arc over the army.

The bird’s smooth flight broke, as if it staggered. Wings folded, it plummeted to earth. Damian wheeled his horse in the direction of its fall.

Ranald Vyandal stood holding the bird, a huge ugly thing with mottled naked skin over its head and neck. An arrow jutted from its breast. It must have died instantly.

“It’s a sentry-bird.” Vyandal’s voice came thick and dark. He looked up, to the now-empty sky. “The Hasturs know where we are. They cannot be more than a day or two away.”

Belisar’s horse, catching his surge of excitement, danced beneath him. “Then we will meet them all the sooner!”

“We go no farther today.” Damian reined in his prancing mount, yanking the horse’s head up and back. “We make camp here. It is time for the second part of our plan.”

That dusk, Damian sat in conference with Ranald Vyandal and his senior lieutenants. Camp chairs were drawn up in his tent and guards posted to prevent any eavesdropping. Belisar sat in one corner, face unreadable in the shadows.

“We had hoped for a larger army at this point,” Ranald said.

Damian propped his elbow on one arm of his chair, leaning his chin on his cupped hand, eyes absently following the pattern of the travel-stained Ardcarran carpet. “Our numbers will be enough. We will attack from a quarter Hastur is
not
expecting.” He had kept his true plans secret until now, even from his general. He could not chance any word of it leaking to the Hasturs or even his own men. The time had come to let his officers know what a glorious victory awaited them.

“Sire?” Ranald Vyandal blinked.

“I bet it has something to do with Uncle Rumail,” said Belisar.

“Indeed, before we left Acosta, I dispatched
Dom
Rumail for Tramontana Tower with a picked escort, a sort of enforcement team, if you will. Just to make sure there is no problem of obedience to our will. And our will is that he be placed as Keeper there, with absolute authority to issue orders in my name.”

Vyandal, however, went pale. “Majesty, you do not mean to bring the Towers into this war?” In his eyes, Damian read the barely-healed memories of his last battle with
laran
weapons.

“I do not mean to use bonewater dust,” Damian reassured him. “But a far more powerful strategy. Before, we could only use those armaments which the Towers could physically produce. Yes, I plan to bring Tramontana into this conflict, but in a very different way. A way that will blind the Hasturs’ advantage and turn the battle with far fewer of our own men lost.”

He watched the shifting expressions on their faces as he outlined the plan, astonishment and consternation giving way to devotion. These men would follow him anywhere, die at his slightest word, for he had handed them a victory such as the world had never known.

What he proposed had been done before, but on a very limited basis, only by small
laran
circles who traveled with their armies. Their powers were limited by their numbers and distance from their targets. Rumail’s genius showed how the strength of an entire, fully functional Tower circle could be brought into battle, no matter how far away. For in the Overworld, that vast mental plane, the power of the mind reigned supreme. It was from that bizarre and terrible place Deslucido would launch his true assault.

“As soon as we are in position, it will not matter what the Hasturs know or how many more men they have. They will fall like ripened wheat beneath our scythe. Nothing they do can stop us now.”

R
afael Hastur’s army made its way along the circuitous route from the Drycreek area to the Venza Hills and the border with Acosta. It moved slowly as supply lines were reestablished and the sick men tended to. About halfway there, Taniquel joined him with her heavily-armed escort. This was no longer a simple border dispute, she pointed out in her missive, informing him that she was coming. The goal was now the liberation of Acosta and she, as its Queen Regent, had every right to be in the forefront.

When she went to greet her uncle the morning after her arrival in camp, she found him scowling as he sat in his favorite camp chair. In front of him, two men knelt while a handful of others, subordinates by their bowed heads and awkward hands, stood a respectful distance away. Their scabbards hung empty from their belts.

As Taniquel approached, Rafael looked up, his expression lightening. The kneeling men turned, and she recognized the elder of them. Esteban—Esteban of Greenhills.

A little shock went through her. It had been Esteban who led the expedition to Thendara to plead for relief against Damian’s rule. He and the other Acosta lords had been so desperate, they determined to pledge themselves to a foreign king rather than continue to see their land pillaged by Deslucido’s tyranny. But Rafael had refused to hear them, and in his place, they had found her.

Joy blazed across the old man’s face. “My Queen! We have found you at last! We all heard the rumors, but dared not hope at first. Then came word that you yourself had taken to the field.” He bowed his head, eyes gleaming, and reached for the hem of her gown. “Lead us! We are yours!”

Taniquel gently pulled her skirts away. “Please, good sir. Get up. This groveling is not seemly before the Hastur lord.” She turned to her uncle, eyes questioning.

“It seems,” Rafael said in a dry voice, “that your reputation has outsped you. These men have been searching for you. They wish to enlist in your cause.”

Taniquel had no armies of her own, let alone any grasp of how to command one effectively. But how could she say so to these men who looked to her with eyes brimming with hope?

She was Queen Regent of Acosta, mother of the one true heir, and she had been Queen in her own right before that, Taniquel reminded herself. She was kin to Kings and gods. The blood of Hastur, Son of Aldones, flowed in her veins.

She drew herself up, head high, shoulders squared. “How many men do you bring me?”

Esteban named a number, men from his own province and more from his neighbors. Some, she guessed, had been fugitives under Deslucido. All would be sorely missed come harvest time. She had half a mind to send them all back where they would do the most good. But she could not throw away the gift of such loyalty or expose them to Deslucido’s retaliation.

Taniquel inclined her head toward where Rafael lounged in his chair like a throne, amusement playing across his eyes. “There sits my uncle, who is my champion in this war. In this campaign, I am guided by him. Are you willing to place yourselves under his orders, to march with his own soldiers against the tyrant of Ambervale?”

Esteban glanced from her to Rafael. Emotion twisted his features, though he held himself proudly. “Your Majesty,
vai domna,
we are yours to command.”

“And you, Uncle,” Taniquel said, raising her voice. “Will you accept the loan of these fighting men, to lead and care for as your own, for the duration of this campaign and without any commitment of future fealty?”

He nodded almost invisibly and she felt the flush of his approval. “I will, my niece.”

“Then,” she turned back to Esteban and the others, “I command you to go with King Rafael’s officers and do as they bid you. I commend you for your service.” With her eyes, she dismissed them.

In a few minutes, the tent was cleared, the Acosta men directed to their new units. After that, there was no discussion of her going back.

As the army got underway again, Taniquel found herself subject to restrictions. It was one thing to travel alone or in command of a small armed party, and quite another to be in the midst of such a large body of soldiers. She knew nothing of the routines and discipline of a traveling army, and she did not want to take men away from their necessary duties to dance attendance on her. Since there was little for her to do except sit quietly while generals discussed things, she spent most of her days with the
laran
workers.

Trailed by two bodyguards, Taniquel and Graciela followed Edric, who was mounted, a short distance from the main army encampment, watching him fly the sentry-birds from a little grassy knoll. The two women chatted comfortably as they stretched their legs in the morning sunshine, each happy to have found a friend. Caitlin had returned to Thendara to oversee the care of those sickened by the bonewater dust. Her place had been taken by two men from Hali whom Taniquel did not know.

Graciela’s initial shyness was wearing off, revealing a surprisingly self-confident young woman. She was the fourth out of seven daughters of an impoverished but noble family, and her family had been only too happy to send her off for Tower training at the slightest hint of talent.

“I had thought I might become a Priestess of Avarra,” she’d confided to Taniquel, “but I would miss the fellowship of men. This is much better.”

For the last hour, Edric had described the location and arrangement of Deslucido’s forces with a detail that she could not have imagined. Had anyone cared to enquire, even the number of latrine ditches and cooking pots could be known. Rafael’s aide, a huge blond man whose skin had sunburned badly and was now peeling away over new pink skin, had taken notes and consulted his maps, then ridden back to deliver the news.

“Aaieeeh!” With a cry, Edric jerked as if struck. His limbs stiffened. The horse beneath him flinched and jigged sideways.

“Catch him!” Graciela cried, as Edric swayed in the saddle.

Taniquel, who was on foot, rushed to the
laranzu’s
horse, holding out her arms. He fell slowly, as if through honey. His weight dropped onto her. For an instant she staggered, then caught her balance and braced herself to lower him to the ground.

Graciela knelt at Edric’s side. His face had gone pasty, his body inert. Taniquel could not see any movement in his chest.

“Is he breathing?” she asked anxiously.
And what happened?

The younger woman’s face went slack, her eyes losing their focus. Her hands skimmed the air just above his body. With that odd
laran
sense of hers, Taniquel felt Graciela sink into rapport.

Graciela kept one hand, fingers spread wide, bare inches over Edric’s chest. The other twisted the neckline of her gown where it covered a pendant on a heavy silver chain. Power crackled through the air between the girl’s hand and the man’s body. Taniquel imagined tiny blue lightnings crossing the narrow space.

Edric gave a convulsive shudder. He gasped for air. The long muscles in his neck stood out like cords.

Sighing loudly, Graciela sat back. “The parting—” she said, her voice reedy with tension, “—it was so sudden.”

Then, seeing the look of puzzlement on Taniquel’s face, Graciela added, “He was linked to the sentry-bird when it was killed. An archer from King Damian’s army must have spotted it. It is bad enough for a handler to lose a bird he has worked with. But when his mind is linked to it, he
becomes
the bird—do you understand?—and if the tie is severed then, it is like being wrenched from his own life. I have heard of
leroni
who have suffered such a shock and become lost in the Overworld, so disoriented they could not find their way back to their own bodies.” She brushed Edric’s tousled hair back from his forehead.

“Edric . . .” At her touch and the sound of her voice, his eyes opened. Blinking, his mouth rounded into an “O” of surprise. He seemed not to know either of them, glancing from one to the other. Then he came to himself, eyes softening. He reached out to grasp Graciela’s hand.