The Song of Homana (37 page)

They were muffled in furred leathers and woolen wrappings. The mist parted as they rode through and showed them more clearly, then closed behind them again. “My lord!” One of the men dismounted before me and dropped to one knee, then up again. “A courier, my lord.”

The gesture indicated the still-mounted stranger. He rode a good horse, as couriers usually do, but I saw no crest to mark him. He wore dark leathers and darker wool; a cap hid most of his head so that only his face showed.

The hot wine warmed my hands, even through my gloves. “Atvian?” I put no inflection in my tone.

The stranger reached up to pull woolen wraps from his face. “No, my lord—Ellasian.” Mouth bared, the words took on greater clarity. “Sent from High Prince Cuinn.”

Lachlan. I could not help the smile. “Step you down, friend courier. You are well come to my army.”

He dismounted, came closer and dropped to one knee in a quick bow of homage. Neatly done. He had a warm, friendly face, but was young, and yet he seemed to know his business. He was red-haired beneath the cap, judging by his brows, and his eyes were green. There were freckles on his face.

“My lord, it pleases me to serve the High Prince. He bids me give you this.” He dug into a leather pouch at his belt and withdrew a folded parchment. A daub of blue wax sealed it closed, and pressed into it was the royal crest: a
harp and the crown of Ellas. It brought back the vision of Lachlan and his Lady, when he told me who he was.

I broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. It crackled in the misted air; its crispness faded as the paper wilted. But the words were legible.

I grinned. And then I laughed, and set my cup of hot wine into the hands of the courier. “Well come, indeed,” I said. “How many, and where?”

He grinned back when he had drunk. “Half a league east, my lord. As to the number—five thousand. The Royal Ellasian Guard.”

I laughed again, loudly. “Ah Lodhi, I thank you for this courier! But even more I thank you for Lachlan’s friendship!” I clapped the courier on his shoulder. “Your name.”

“Gryffth, my lord.”

“And your captain’s?”

“Meredyth. A man close to the High Prince himself.” Gryffth grinned. “My lord, forgive me, but we all know what Prince Cuinn intended. And none of us is unwilling. Shall I send to bring them in?”

“Five thousand…” I shook my head, smiling at the thought. “Thorne will be finished in a day.”

Gryffth brightened. “Then you are near to winning?”

“We
are
winning,” I said. “But this will make the ending sweeter. Ah gods, I do thank you for that harper.” I took the cup from Gryffth as he went to remount his
horse, and watched him ride back into the fog with his Homanan guides.

“Well, my lord,” Rowan said, “the thing is done at last.”

“A good thing, too.” I grinned. “You are not fit to fight with that arm, and now you will not have to.”

“My lord—” he protested, but I did not listen as I read Lachlan’s note again.

The map was of leather, well-tanned and soft. It was a pale creamy color, and the paint stood out upon it. In the candlelighted pavilion, the lines and rune-signs seemed to glow.

“Here.” I put my forefinger on the map. “Mujhara. We are here—perhaps forty leagues from the city: northwest.” I moved my finger more westerly. “The Cheysuli are here, closer to Lestra, though still within Homana.” I lifted the finger and moved it more dramatically, pointing out the Solindish port of Andemir. “Thorne came in here; Atvia is but eight leagues across the Idrian Ocean, directly west of Solinde. He took the shortest sea route to Solinde, and the shortest land route to Homana.” I traced the invisible line across the map. “See you here? —he came this way, cutting Solinde in half. It is here our boundary puts its fist into Solinde, and it is where Thorne was bound.”

“But you stopped him.” The Ellasian captain nodded. “You have cut him off, and he goes no farther.”

It seemed odd to hear the husky accent again, though we spoke Homanan between us and all my captains. There were other Ellasians as well, clustered within my tent; I meant Lachlan’s gift to know precisely what they were doing.

“Thorne let it be known he was splitting his army,” I explained. “He would come overland through Solinde, gaining support from the rebels there. But he also sent a fleet—or so all the reports said. A fleet bound for Hondarth—down here.” I set my finger on the mark that represented Hondarth, near the bottom of the map and directly south of Mujhara. “But there was no fleet—no
real
fleet. It was a ruse.”

Meredyth nodded. “He meant you to halve your army
and send part of it to Hondarth, so that when he came in here—full strength—he would face a reduced Homanan warhost.” He smiled. “Clever. But you are more so, my lord Mujhar.”

I shook my head. “Fortunate. My spies are good. I heard of the ruse and took steps to call back those I had dispatched to Hondarth; thank the gods, they had not gotten far. We have Thorne now, but he will not give up. He will send his men against me until there is no one left.”

“And the Solindish aid he wanted?”

“Less than he desired.” Meredyth was older than I by at least twenty years, but he listened well. At first I had hesitated to speak so plainly, knowing him more experienced than I, but Lachlan had chosen well. Here was a man who would listen and weigh my words, then make his judgment upon them. “He came into Solinde expecting to find thousands for the taking, but there have been only hundreds. Since I sent the Cheysuli there, the Solindish are—hesitant to upset the alliance I made.”

Meredyth’s expression showed calm politeness. “The Queen fares well?”

I knew what he asked. It was more than just an inquiry after Electra’s health. The future of Solinde rested upon the outcome—or issue—of the marriage; Electra would bear me a second child in three months and, if it were a boy, Solinde would be one child closer to freedom and autonomy. It was why Thorne had found his aid so thin. That, and the Cheysuli.

“The Queen fares well,” I said.

Meredyth’s smile was slight. “Then what of the Ihlini, my lord? Have they not joined with Thorne?”

“There has been no word of Ihlini presence within the Atvian army.” Thank the gods, but I did not say it. “What we face are Atvians with a few hundred Solindish rebels.” I made a quick gesture. “Thorne is clever, aye, and he knows how to come against me. I am not crushing him as I might wish, not when he uses my own methods against me. No pitched battles, merely raids and skirmishes, as I employed against Bellam. As you see, we have been here
six months; the thing is not easily won. At least—it
was
not, until Lachlan sent his gift.”

Meredyth nodded his appreciation. “I think, my lord, you will be home in time to see the birth of your heir.”

“Be the gods willing.” I tapped the map again. “Thorne has sent some of his army in here, where I have posted the Cheysuli. But the greater part of it remains here, where we are. The last skirmish was two days ago. I doubt he will come against me before another day has passed. Until then, I suggest we make our plans.”

Thorne of Atvia came against us two days later with all the strength he had. No more slash and run as he had learned from me; he fought, this time, with the determination of a man who knows he will lose and, in the losing, lose himself. With the Ellasian men we hammered him back, shutting off the road to Homana. Atvian bowmen notwithstanding, we were destroying his thinning offense.

I sought only Thorne in the crush of fighting. I wanted him at the end of my blade, fully aware of his own death and who dealt it. It was he who had taken my sword from me on the battlefield near Mujhara, nearly seven years before. It was he who had put the iron on me and ordered Rowan flogged. It was Thorne who might have slain Alix, given the chance, had not the Cheysuli come. And it was Thorne who offered me insult by thinking he could pull down my House and replace it with his own.

When the arrow lodged itself in the leather-and-mail of my armor, I thought myself unhurt. It set me back in the saddle a moment and I felt the punch of a sharpened fist against my left shoulder, but I did not think it had gone through to touch my flesh. It was only when I reined my horse into an oncoming Atvian that I realized the arm was numb.

I swore. The Atvian approached at full gallop, sword lifted above his head. He rode with his knees, blind to his horse, intent on striking me down. I meant to do the same, but now I could not. I had only the use of one arm.

His horse slammed into mine. The impact sent a wave of pain rolling from shoulder to skull. I bent forward at once, seeking to keep my seat as the Atvian’s sword came
down. Blade on blade and the screech of steel—the deflected blow went behind me, barely, and into my saddle. I spun my horse away and the Atvian lost his sword. It remained wedged in my saddle, offering precarious seating, since an ill-timed movement might result in an opened buttock, but at least I had disarmed him. I stood up in my stirrups, avoiding the sword, and saw him coming at me.

He was unarmed. He screamed. And he threw himself from his horse to lock both hands through the rings of my mail.

My own sword was lost. I felt it fall, twisting out of my hand, as the weight came down upon me. He was large, too large, and unwounded. With both hands grasping the ringmail of my armor, he dragged me from my horse.

I twisted in midair, trying to free myself. But the ground came up to meet us and nearly knocked me out of my senses. My left arm was still numb, still useless.

His weight was unbearable. He ground me into the earth. One knee went into my belly as he rose up to reach for his knife and I felt the air rush out. And yet somehow I gritted my teeth and unsheathed my own knife, jabbing upward into his groin.

He screamed. His own weapon dropped as he doubled over, grabbing his groin with both hands. Blood poured out of the wound and splashed against my face. And yet I could not move; could not twist away. His weight was upon my belly and the fire was in my shoulder.

I stabbed again, striking with gauntleted hands. His screams ran on, one into another, until it was a single sound of shock and pain and outrage. I saw the blindness in his eyes and knew he would bleed to death.

He bent forward. Began to topple. The knee shut off my air. And then he fell and the air came back, a little, but all his dead weight was upon me. His right arm was flung across my face, driving ringmail into my mouth, and I felt the coppery taste of blood spring up into my teeth. Blood. Gods, so much blood, and some of it my own.…

I twisted. I thrust with my one good arm and tried to topple him off. But his size and the slackness of death
undid me, the heaviest weight of all, and I had no strength left to fight it. I went down, down into the oubliette, with no one there to catch me.…

Shadows. Darkness. A little light. I thrust myself upward into the light, shouting out a name.

“Be still, my lord,” Rowan said. “Be still.”

Waite took a swab of bloody linen from me and I realized he tended my shoulder. More blood. Gods, would he turn to cautery? It was no wonder Rowan seemed so calm. He had felt the kiss of hot steel and now expected me to do the same.

I shut my eyes. Sweat broke out and coursed down my face. I had forgotten what pain was, real pain, having escaped such wounds for so long. In Caledon, once or twice, I had been wounded badly, but I had always forgotten the pain and weakness that broke down the soul.

“The arrow as loosed from close by,” Waite said conversationally. “Your armor stopped most of the force of it, but not all. Still, it is not a serious wound; I have got the arrowhead out. If you lie still long enough, I think the whole will heal.”

I opened one eye a slit. “No cautery?”

“Do you prefer it?”

“
No
—” I hissed as the shoulder twinged. “By the gods—can you not give me what you gave Rowan?”

“I
thought
you gave me something,” Rowan muttered. “I slept too well that night.”

Waite pressed another clout of linen against the wound. It came away less bloody, but the pain was still alive. “I will give you whatever you require, my lord. It is a part of a chirurgeon’s service.” He smiled as I scowled. “Wait you until I am done with the linens, and you shall have your powder.” He gestured to Rowan. “Lift him carefully, captain. Think of him as an egg.”

I would have laughed, had I the strength. As it was I could only smile. But when Rowan started to lift me up so Waite could bind the linens around my chest, I nearly groaned aloud. “Gods—are all my bones broken?”

“No.” Waite pressed a linen pad against my shoulder and began to bind strips around my chest. “You were
found beneath three hundred pounds of mailed Atvian bulk. I would guess you were under it for several hours, while the battle raged on. It is no wonder you feel half-crushed—there, captain, I am done. Let him down again, gently. Do not crack the eggshell.”

I shut my eyes again until the sweat dried upon my body. A moment later Waite held a cup to my mouth. “Drink, my lord. Sleep is best for now.”

It was sweetened wine. I drank down the cup and lay my head down again, trying to shut out the pain. Rowan, kneeling beside my cot, watched with worried eyes.

I shivered. Waite pulled rugs and pelts up over my body until only my head was free. There were braziers all around my cot. In winter, even a minor wound can kill.

My mouth was sore, no doubt from where the ringmail had broken my lip. I tongued it, feeling the swollen cut, then grimaced. What a foolish way to be taken out of a battle.