Blood in the Water (57 page)

Sudden uproar shook the air. Down in the valley bottom, Karn saw the Triolle mercenaries who’d fought so long and so hard were throwing up their hands in surrender. Men dropped to their knees, casting weapons aside. Standards were dipped so their streamers of green and yellow could be torn off and stamped into the mud.

There was no one to stop them. No one to offer them hope of reinforcement. Beyond all that chaos, the Parnilesse horsemen were still locked in vicious combat with the returning Marlier cavalry and the Dalasorians’ reserve.

“Your Grace, we must go.” Karn reached for Duke Iruvain’s bridle.

“How dare they?” The duke gaped at the abject scene. “How dare they?”

“Your Grace!” Karn wrenched at the horse’s head. “The tide of battle has turned against us here. Lord Geferin may yet prevail but we must get you to safety.”

Their immediate situation was grave but escape was still possible. Not all of the Triolle mercenaries had surrendered. Enough were still fighting to slow Marlier’s men’s advance. The rest of the enemy were emptying their new prisoners’ pockets and squabbling over the plunder. None of them had yet seen the tempting prizes of Duke Iruvain’s retinue.

“Very well.” Iruvain belatedly realised their peril, his irate colour fading. “Which is our safest route?”

“The high road,” Karn decided. “We must catch Duchess Litasse and her escort. I don’t recommend heading for Parnilesse now, Your Grace.”

“Not when Lord Geferin will surely find some way to blame me for all this.” Iruvain looked dubiously at the second bridge.

Triolle militiamen were shoving others aside in their desperation to flee. There were fist-fights and men grappling on the ground.

“You, go ahead and clear the road!” the duke shouted angrily at his standard-bearer. Several of the young lieutenants immediately obeyed, drawing their swords and spurring their horses.

“Your Grace, we can just go around,” shouted Karn.

Though going southwards meant crossing the road and the second of these infuriating streams. Shallow though the waters were, even that slight delay might cost them dearly, if the Marlier mercenaries saw them running. Those men would already be calculating the ransoms they’d extort from the captains who’d surrendered to them. The chance of capturing Triolle’s duke would look as good as gold in their hands.

The Parnilesse contingent who’d declined Lord Geferin’s summons were also riding away in that direction. Karn didn’t relish the thought of encountering them. Iruvain’s retinue would be utterly outnumbered and again, the duke himself would be a prize worth capturing. Unless those scum decided it was safer to simply kill every witness to their bad faith. What was one more dead duke of Lescar?

He looked northwards. Risking the mayhem unfolding in the woods was unthinkable. That left the narrow gap between the coppiced slope and the river. That was their only clear route away from this carnage.

Could any enemy companies pursue them if they went that way? No, the evenly matched battle between Marlier and Parnilesse still raged in the centre. The Mountain Men were intent on a contingent of Triolle mercenaries who’d somehow escaped capture thus far.

Then Karn saw the cream and gold standard of the exiles moving slowly down the far side of the valley. Captain-General Evord’s command company was escorted by a regiment of lancers, another of mercenary cavalry and a second sizeable contingent of those accursed Mountain Men. Ridianne the Vixen’s scarlet and silver standard led her retinue to meet them.

“Your Grace, we must ride due east.” He pointed. “Once we’re sure we’re not pursued, we can cut back towards the road.”

“Very well.” Iruvain spurred his horse. His personal guard and some of the young lieutenants, Lord Roreth among them, drew close.

As they pushed back across the river, fighting through the noisome corpses, Karn kept half an eye on the bridge. Some of the Triolle militia were looking their way, shouting and waving. Were they accusing Iruvain of deserting or begging for his help?

Safely on the eastern bank of the river, he chanced a longer look. So that was what the militia were shouting about. A contingent of Marlier mercenaries had seen their chance to snare a duke. They were running full tilt down the road.

Good luck to them
, Karn thought distantly. He and Iruvain and most of the ducal retinue were mounted on comparatively fresh horses. A morning standing watching a battle had been no great trial. Their pursuers were on foot and exhausted.

Iruvain wasn’t so sanguine. He shook Lord Roreth by the shoulder and pointed to the chaos by the bridge. “Tell them to hold and I’ll ennoble every man and boy among them!”

“What?” The younger man gaped at him, pallid with fear.

“Do as your duke bids you!” Karn slashed his own whip at the rump of Roreth’s horse. The startled beast sprang forwards, the young man helpless to hold it. Several of the noble lieutenants followed him without thinking.

Satisfied the Marlier mercenaries would have rich prizes to squabble over now, Karn lashed Iruvain’s horse to a canter. “Your Grace, think of the duchess! We must ride to her aid!”

Whatever Iruvain said in reply was lost amid the disorder. Using his whip and elbows, Karn forced their way to the front of the other riders. They soon escaped the treacherous ground of the water meadows for the firmer grass of the chase between the woods and the river. He forced his horse to a gallop with brutal heels.

“Ware!” Someone away to Iruvain’s left started yelling. “Ware foe!”

“Parnilesse! Parnilesse!”

Panicked militiamen in black and green burst out of the scrub. Iruvain instinctively reined in, with the rest of the riders slowing in confusion.

“Report!” Karn shouted promptly.

Instinct brought a sergeant-at-arms to run alongside his stirrup.

“It’s murder, my lord,” the man gasped. “They sent their northlanders through the woods. Their foot soldiers followed, to take us in the flank. Our lines are all broken. We had to run or we’d have been surrounded and cut to pieces!”

“Then save yourselves.” Karn gathered his reins.

“My lord!” The sergeant grabbed at his boot. “Take me up! I have children—”

Karn kicked him in the face. The man fell back clutching his broken nose. Outraged, a man swung his halberd to hook Karn out of his saddle. His retaliating swordstroke splintered the shaft but didn’t break it. No matter. His backhand cut ripped deep into the militiaman’s shoulder, forcing him to drop the weapon with an agonised cry.

All around, Duke Iruvain’s retinue spurred on their horses to escape such clutching hands. Karn used the flat of his blade and, here and there, the edge on men and horses alike to secure his place behind the duke.

“Ware to the left!”

The shout came again and so did the answering cry.

“Parnilesse!”

“Geferin!” Iruvain jerked on his reins.

His horse jibbed so hard that Karn’s mount ran into its shoulder. The two horses reared up, fighting their bridles, long yellow teeth snapping at each other. Karn smacked his outraged steed hard between the ears to cow it.

It was indeed the Parnilesse standard, with a sizeable number of militia pennants and a few mercenary banners besides. Lord Geferin might not have achieved whatever he’d sought in those woods but he was holding this hastily assembled regiment together. They were retreating swiftly but in good order.

“Do we join forces, Your Grace?” A rider in their vanguard shouted back over his shoulder.

Karn saw other lieutenants already turning their horses to do that.

“No,” he shouted before the duke could answer. “We’re mounted and too many of them are on foot. They’ll only slow us down!”

“Onwards,” Iruvain roared. “Lord Geferin can make shift for himself!”

They swept past the motley Parnilesse regiment. Signal horns called, militia flags waved and Lord Geferin’s standard waved an unmistakable summons. Iruvain ignored all their appeals. They quickly left the broken edge of the woodland behind, riding across open fields. There were no crops or herds to hamper them in this wintry season.

How soon could they cut back to the faster going of the road? Where was the next safe place to cross the river? Karn couldn’t see anything useful past the riders crowding ahead of Iruvain.

“Ware horsemen!” One of the foremost lieutenants was pointing north.

Karn had to fall back to get a clear sight of this new threat. Dalasorian lancers, all unbloodied, their horses showing scant sign of toil. Where by everything sacred and profane had they come from?

Where were they going? The Parnilesse force was closer but far more threatening. Lord Geferin’s men had already seen this unexpected menace. They were closing ranks, presenting a bristling palisade of halberds to impale any lancers’ charge.

That left Duke Iruvain’s retinue the easier prey, but they were already well ahead of the lancers. Even if they were pursued, they should still get clear away.

In the very instant Karn thought this, a horse ahead stumbled on freshly ploughed furrows. Its fall brought down three more. Duke Iruvain’s guards scattered in confusion.

“Your Grace!” Karn risked a glance to see if the lancers were galloping to profit from their mishap. To his intense relief, he saw they were already attacking the Parnilesse militiamen.

“We must make for the duchess, and Draximal! If Triolle is lost for this winter, there’s still Sharlac to reclaim!”

Iruvain wasn’t listening. As his horse whirled around, he had seen the lancers’ assault. His face slackened with horrified surprise.

“Geferin’s standard.” He looked at Karn, appalled. “It’s fallen. What’s happened?”

Even by Iruvain’s standards that was a singularly pointless question.

“Your Grace, I don’t know.” Karn snapped his whip at Iruvain’s steed. This time the grey was ready and he barely avoided being bitten. “One way or another, the news will reach us. Do you want to hear it safe in Draximal or locked inside your own dungeons?” he challenged the duke.

Scarlet in the face, Iruvain wrenched his horse’s head around and galloped away.

Karn followed hard on his heels, to make certain he didn’t waver. The remnants of the retinue were still in utter disarray. Some hesitated, shouting, looking for someone to lead them. Some were already galloping off, grimly intent on their own salvation. Seeing Iruvain fleeing, ones and twos followed, here and there a handful joining them.

Karn ignored them all. They were no longer his concern. With Lord Geferin fallen or captured, by whatever accursed luck that had happened, the Soluran had won the battle. Parnilesse and Triolle were now defeated as thoroughly as Sharlac and Carluse. Draximal was a spent force after the disaster at Tyrle and, abandoned by the Vixen, Marlier had no hope of raising an army to challenge these exiles.

The Soluran had waged a brilliant campaign. Very well. This war wasn’t over. There were other ways to fight, with words and with all the subtle arts that Master Hamare had excelled in. Karn hoped Duchess Litasse would prove herself his old master’s worthy pupil. And if that bastard Minelas had achieved nothing else, the renegade mage had deprived the exiles of their intelligencer, that treacherous bitch Lady Alaric or whatever her real name was.

Whatever else might happen, Karn was determined he and Litasse would still have their revenge on those Mountain-born assassins, whatever their arcane talents. One thing Minelas’s death proved was that wizards were as vulnerable as anyone else to steel in the gut.

Chapter Forty

Aremil

Carluse Castle,

6th of For-Winter

The knock wasn’t the one he longed for. It was welcome nonetheless.

“Come in!” Aremil reached for his crutches.

“No, don’t disturb yourself,” Tathrin protested as he entered.

Too late. Aremil was already on his feet, tucking one prop under an arm to hold out a hand to his friend.

“It’s so good to see you.” He meant it with all his heart.

Better yet, face to face, Tathrin couldn’t see all the reasons for his relief. Nor would he be burdened with Tathrin’s exhausting hopes and fears. Aremil longed for a respite from Artifice’s intimacy.

“You look tired.” Concern furrowed Tathrin’s brow.

As Aremil withdrew his hand, he felt the calluses on Tathrin’s palm. His friend was no longer a scholar. He tried for a light tone. “I’ll wager the shadows under my eyes are equal to your own. Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

“No.” Tathrin grinned as he fingered his stubble. “But are you sure you’re quite well? You had that cough.” He looked at the modest fire in the hearth. “Are you keeping warm?”

“Master Welgren was satisfied my chest was clear before he left for Triolle. He wouldn’t have gone otherwise.” He sought to turn the conversation. “Are Sorgrad and Gren not with you?”

“They’ve gone to see Charoleia.” Tathrin looked anxious. “How will they find her?”

“Well enough,” Aremil said slowly. “Master Welgren wouldn’t have left if her hurts weren’t mending. She says this is by no means the worst she has suffered.”