Wizard of the Grove (3 page)

“You eat with the dukes, milord,” Ivan finished fastening the red velvet jacket and stepped back to view his handiwork, “because your father commands your presence.” He picked the gold belt off the bed and slung it artfully around the prince's hips. “And because, milord,” he continued, firmly removing Rael's hands when he tried to hitch the belt higher, “it is good policy for you to get to know the dukes.”

“I know the dukes.” Rael held out a foot so Ivan could force it into a tight red leather boot. “Aliston will pay attention only to his food and perhaps grunt once or twice if Father addresses him directly. Cei will worry out loud and continuously. And Belkar . . .” A violent shove almost tore the second boot from Ivan's hands. “I haven't anything to say to Belkar.” Belkar's daughter had been left at home.

“Then the dukes must get to know you, milord.”

“They know me, Ivan.” His voice was suddenly bleak and his eyes flared. “And only Belkar looks at me.”

The older man met the brilliance of the prince's gaze without fear. “Someday they will see you, milord. And when they do, they will stop looking away.”

Rael let the green burn brighter. “And what will they see,” he asked softly.

Ivan smiled. “All that you are. All that you can be. All that you are not.”

The unearthly fires were abruptly banked.

“You're talking in riddles again, Ivan.” Grumbling, Rael went to have his dinner with the dukes.

He had new people to know.

“What I don't understand,” he asked as Rutgar unbuckled his practice breastplate, “is why it's such an honor to be an armsman.” The armor came free and he took a deep breath; the morning's maneuvers had been particularly strenuous as the Elite honed itself for the battles to come. “I mean, you were moving up in the Palace Guard and now,” he shrugged himself free of the padded undertunic, “now, you're just a well-armed servant.” He winced. “Uh, no offense, Rutgar.”

“None taken, Commander.” The armsman bent so Rael could reach his buckles in turn. “Perhaps you haven't noticed, but all the officers of the Elite were armsmen once. It is, after all, the best position to observe and learn in. Only the best are chosen to be armsmen.”

Rael's jaw dropped and the corners of Rutgar's mouth twitched.

“If you'll sit down, Commander, I'll get those greaves.”

And still the day to day governing of the land must go on.

“Your Highness, please inform your father that unless something is done soon, the water situation in the camps will become desperate.”

“Prince Rael, I must have more men if I am to make all the arrows ordered by the king.”

“Young sir, a moment of your time. The men of the camps have been tearing the town apart and I can't get near the king.”

“Rael! Haven't you got something to do?”

“Yes, Father, but . . .”

“Then do it, lad!”

“Yes, sir.”

There could be no letting up of the pressure, no thought of taking more time to prepare. Not only was there an invasion to meet, but so many men in so little space would become a serious problem if the army lingered too long.

Although it seemed as if he'd done enough work for two years, only two short weeks later Rael heard his father tell the dukes and the captains that they would march with the dawn.

“And tonight, milord?” inquired a captain, one of Aliston's by his badge.

“Tonight,” replied the king, hitching up his broad leather belt to get at an elusive itch, “I will ride amongst the men.”

“They'll be glad to see you, Sire.”

“I certainly hope so. Would you like to ride with me, son?” he asked, turning to Rael.

“Me, sir?” Rael felt as if he hadn't been out of the palace in months.

“Yes, you. If I have another son in this room I haven't been told.”

One of the captains snickered and Rael felt himself turning pink. “Yes, sir, I'd like to go with you.”

When the king and the heir rode out that evening, they wore plain armor and took only two of the Palace Guard, but everyone in the camp knew the iron-haired warrior and the young man with the fire-green eyes.

Rael drank in the sights and sounds and smells: the kraken pennant of Cei, blood red against the gray of evening; two men cursing genially as they diced; sweat and leather and steel. Here was a different world from those he had known—the forest and the court—cruder, less disciplined, more rawly sensual.

Raen watched the tall young man riding beside him with pride, and some amusement, as his son tried to take in everything without appearing to notice anything at all. He submerged the thought that in war young men die and he buried the fear that this one he loved so dearly could be taken from him.

The men were in good spirits and some called out to the riders as they passed. They had a long march ahead with Lord Death waiting at the end of it and a soldier, even a temporary soldier, makes merry when he can. Many of the sentiments were not those normally heard in the presence of the king and the heir to the throne. A grizzled archer bellowed out a riddle so coarse that the prince blushed, but the King roared with laughter and gave back the answer.

“Aye, the king knows his women,” slurred a loud voice from the crowd. “Pity he can't find a real one to get a son on.”

Raen stopped laughing. Silence fell. So complete a silence it was possible to hear the soft whistle of the horses' breath. He held up a hand to stop the Guard from riding forward, and watched his son. He remembered how Milthra had handed him the squalling, naked babe, the love in her eyes lighting up the whole Grove. When Rael looked up, he nodded.

A pulse beat in Rael's throat like a wild thing held prisoner, but it was the only movement visible. His eyes flamed and one by one, not even aware they did it, men stepped aside until a massive soldier stood alone.

Silently, Rael swung off his horse. Slowly and deliberately, as if afraid a sudden movement would release the emotions held rigidly in check, he moved to stand before the man. He felt his mother's heritage well up within him. The strength of the tree. The strength to withstand wind and storm. The strength to root into bedrock and hold on. His blood sang and his eyes blazed. And his fists clenched, for he was also his father's son.

“You have no right to speak of my mother.”

His voice was so soft it might have been the passing breeze that spoke.

Swaying unsteadily on tree-trunk legs, either too foolish or too befuddled by wine to see the threat in the slim young man who faced him, the soldier narrowed his eyes belligerently. “Your mother,” he slurred, “was likely a common street whore who spread . . .”

In the stillness, the sound of Rael's fist striking the other's jaw rang out like a thunderclap. The soldier's head snapped back, he hung for a moment on the night, and then crumpled to the ground.

Still outwardly emotionless, Rael remounted. He ignored the blood running down his fingers from where the skin had split over a knuckle. Only the trembling of his hand as he took up the reins betrayed that he felt anything at all.

“His neck's broken,” said the old archer looking up from the body. “He's dead.”

“Then bury him,” said the king. And they rode in silence back to the palace where they went to their separate rooms and spent the rest of the night staring sleeplessly in the direction of the forest.

*   *   *

The Grove was silver and shadow in the moonlight. Clothed in night, its beauty became sharp edges and satin blackness, drawing away from the world of mortals to that of an older time. Within the circle of birches, no nightbirds called, no animals, large or small, stalked prey or were stalked in turn, no breeze wandered to disturb the listening quiet of the trees.

One moment the Grove waited empty and still, the next Doan, the Captain of the Elite, stood before the eldest of the trees and said: “All right, you called. I'm here.”

The tree murmured in protest as Milthra pulled herself from its heart.

At the sight of her face, Doan winced. “You know.”

“The breezes told me when it was done,” Milthra admitted, the clear chimes of her voice flattened with worry. “But they have not returned again and I must know what is said of my son.”

Doan shoved his thumbs behind his belt and paced about the Grove, breaking the moonlight into Doan-sized patterns. He had done little since he'd heard the news but listen for reaction to the deed. He knew this summons would come. “Those who saw,” his rough burr broke the silence of the Grove at last, “say the man deserved it. Not death perhaps, but the blow at least. Fortunately, the man was not well liked. Most admire the prince for standing up for you himself when he could've hidden behind the Guard. Many are impressed by his strength and are anxious to see it on the battlefield. But,” his fingers drummed on the leather around his waist, “there are those for whom it only marks his difference, and difference is always distrusted. And in everyone's mind, although for the most part it remains unasked, is the question, ‘If he kills so easily now, when he is king, how can any of us be safe?'” He met Milthra's eyes and smiled grimly. “It would've been
simpler for all concerned, Lady, had you loved a woodcutter or a farmer and not a king.”

“So you have said before, old friend, but I could no more have refused that love than I could refuse to breathe; I am sorry for the burden it places on my son.” She sighed and, behind her, her tree swayed in sympathy. “Even you, who are fully of the Elder Races, are accepted in the mortal world more easily than Rael.”

Doan shrugged. “I play a part. And even if I convinced them of what I truly am . . .” He spread his hands. “Dwarves brought mortals fire and taught them to build; helped them to rebuild after the destruction of the wizards. We showed them a number of ways to cheat Lord Death. We've never been either revered or feared.”

“And I am both?”

“They don't know you, Lady.”

Milthra shook her hair over her face and wept behind its silver curtain.

Anger and pity rose in the dwarf's breast. Anger that she who was Eldest and most beautiful should be reduced to weeping over mortal man. Pity for much the same reason. He reached out a hand and Milthra pressed her cheek into it. Then she stepped back to the safety of her tree and he held only a tear that ran down his palm. It slowed, stopped, flared suddenly, then darkened to an emerald that held all the greens of the Grove in its depths. He slipped it in his belt pouch and bowed to the silver birch before him.

“I will continue to watch him, Eldest,” and his eyes glowed deeply red, “both for your sake and his. But remember, not all the Dwarves from the Mother's blood could keep Lord Death away if he comes to claim his own and, your life mingled within or no, your son is as mortal as his father. Perhaps you should save some tears for that.”

And then the Grove was empty, save for the silver of moonlight, the blackness of night, and the sound of the Eldest weeping for her child.

R
ael swore as sweat rolled into his eyes and he blinked furiously to ease the burning. He used his shield to smash aside the vicious hooked blade of a Melac spearman and in the same move swung his sword around, over, and down onto the man's arms. The meaty thunk of metal through flesh and bone was absorbed by the sounds of battle. Beneath him, his horse struck out with steel-edged hoofs, giving Rael time to yank free his blade, turn, and open the face of the man who threatened on his right. He tightened his legs and the warhorse leaped forward. Another Melacian went down, gurgling blood, his ribs a mass of splintered bone.

Then there was nothing in front of them but a rock-strewn slope, and the stallion stretched into a canter. They thundered up the hill, wheeled at the crest, and looked down over the valley. The warhorse stopped so suddenly at Rael's command that the prince rocked in the saddle. After four passes across the valley, cutting their way through the enemy position, the animal knew that this was his chance to rest and he stood, sides heaving, while Rael, no less winded, lifted his visor to better suck in great lungfuls of air. Beside and behind him, other members of the Elite did the same.

The valley held a seething mass of men and weapons and dead and dying. Hale's horsemen, more lightly armored than the Elite, darted in and out of the melee, sabers red and dripping. The space was too enclosed for their speed and maneuverability to be totally effective, but they stung the flanks of the enemy like gadflies. The ducal guards of
Belkar, Cei, and Aliston fought in clumps, lending their strength and skill when they could to the farmers, fishermen, and herdsmen who fought beside them but too used to fighting as units to do more than slow the slaughter of the common folk. Over it all, crows and other carrion birds rode the updrafts, waiting for nightfall and their time in the valley.

Safely out of it for the moment, Rael was conscious of the noise in a way he hadn't had time to be while he fought. It filled the bowl of the valley, the deep-voiced defiance of thousands of men and the slam and clatter of thousands of weapons, with eddies of greater noise where the fighting was fiercest, and every now and then a scream piercing through the din like torchlight through smoke.

From here, Rael mused, the Ardhan and Melacian dying sounded very much alike.

From a distance, as though he wandered through someone else's mind, he considered the absence of terror and disgust and shame—at what he'd seen and what he'd done. His ability to feel had gone as numb as his nose; he'd long since stopped noticing the omnipresent stench of blood and guts and sweat. His brain had apparently decided to concentrate on the essentials, survival and command, and let all else wait until later.
“Much later,”
he prayed, remembering how he'd felt during the butchery of the first charge.
“Please, much later.”

“Over there, look!”

Down the line, one of the Elite called and pointed and the men raised a ragged cheer as a flight from Belkar's archers collapsed an advancing enemy line. Although the rest of the Elite saw the arrows as smudges against the sky and could tell only by their direction which side fired and which died, with his mother's eyes, Rael watched each double-barbed arrow land, diving deep to burrow through armor and into the soft meat beneath. He tried not to flinch. It wouldn't look good.

“Cristof lost his horse, Commander, but he got out on his Half's stirrup. And we've got two cut reins from those damned hooked blades.”

Rael started as the First broke through his thoughts and, glad for an excuse to stop watching the carnage, he turned to face the officer.

“Keep the Halves together.” That much, at least, he knew he had to do. The Elite fought in pairs; each man a Half and each man's Half closer to him than mere comrade or friend. It was not a commitment all chosen for the Elite were willing to make and those men who weren't stayed in the Guard, but it was a part of why the Elite fought so fiercely; each Half
knew
another's life depended on his skill. “Have Cristof's Half give his reins to repair the two reins cut. Then the Pair can head back, get outfitted again and rejoin us on the far side of the valley after the next pass.”

“Very good, sir.” The standard response sounded like praise. An unorthodox solution, perhaps, but it kept together three Pairs who would have otherwise been split. The First moved away and began barking orders. The company's respite was nearly over.

“Yes, Commander, very good.” It seemed Doan's surly chestnut could move as silently as its rider. One moment the space to Rael's left stood empty, the next the captain filled it, perched—given the length of Doan's legs, there could be no other word for it—on his horse beside him. “These cross valley charges of yours seem to be working as well. You were right, the enemy does find it demoralizing to have us thunder down and through the middle of their position.”

Rael searched the captain's words for sarcasm and found, not praise, exactly, but acknowledgment of success. He was almost too tired to be pleased.

“You hurt?” Rutgar moved his horse closer to Rael's right and nodded at the blood that clotted and congealed down the prince's leg.

Rael looked down and shrugged. “Not mine.” He turned and studied his armsman. “How about you?”

Rutgar touched a dent in the side of his helmet with his shield hand and grinned. “My ears'll ring for a while, but I'm all right. Who'd have thought they'd throw rocks?”

A quick glance around showed the Elite to be ready. Rael, prince and commander, slammed his visor down with the edge of his sword,
touched his heels to his horse, and led the Elite on another slash of destruction through the foe.

*   *   *

The command tent was hot, smoky and entirely too full of sweaty, tired men; three dukes and Aliston's heir, for the Duke of Aliston was too old to travel so far and far too old to fight, eleven captains, the king, and the prince, all with the smell of battle clinging to them. Sweet candles had been lit, but the odor of blood and death refused to be defeated by jasmine and spice. Rael gritted his teeth and hoped his nose would go numb to this as well.

“We have to keep him in the valley where his position works against the number of men he's throwing against us.” The king jabbed at the map with his dagger. “If he forces us out to the Tage Plateau, he'll be able to expand his front beyond our ability to contain him. He's got the manpower to flank us easily.”

“I hardly think easily, Sire.” Hale played with one beaded end of his mustache. “More room to maneuver could work to our advantage as well.”

“Well, I don't think every horse in your province could stop the number of men Melac is putting into the field.” Cei dabbed at his dripping nose with a square of cotton. “You can't herd men like cattle, you know.”

Hale raised both brows in a barely polite expression. “Oh? Can't I?”

“Gentlemen.” Raen's voice developed an edge. “It's a moot point what Hale's horsemen can or cannot do because I have no intention of allowing Melac out of the valley even if he dumps every able body in his kingdom on us.”

“Which he seems to be doing,” Belkar added dryly.

“Yes . . . well . . .” Raen directed their attention back to the map. “I think we can all see why he chose this pass. The Melac side may be difficult to maneuver through, but it opens so smoothly into Ardhan that once the valley's gained it's damned difficult for us to defend against him.”

Belkar scratched at a bandage wrapped around his knuckles and
shook his head. “And unfortunately this madman cares little how many men he wastes getting to our side of the mountains.”

“Fortunately for us,” Hale corrected smoothly. “The enemy arrives to fight us exhausted from fighting the mountains. It gives us a small edge against his superior numbers.”

Cei sniffed and rubbed at his nose. His already lachrymose disposition had not been improved by a reaction to the plant life of the area. “What I don't understand is how a whole army got so close before we knew where it was going. What I want to know is, why weren't Riven and Lorn watching their borders?”

“They were. Only by their vigilance did we manage to arrive in time to contain Melac where we have. It would've gone a lot worse with us if the Dukes of Riven and Lorn had not been watching their borders. And it would go a lot worse for us now if they and their men were not out in the mountains making sure that this is the only breach Melac makes.”

Cei hunched his bony shoulders under the lash of the king's voice.

“What amazes me,” Hale, cool and slightly amused, defused the rising tension, “is how they ever managed to agree that the attack would come here. They can't even agree whose province this valley is in.” He stretched out long legs, still in stained riding leathers. “I suppose if we win, they'll both claim it.”

Belkar nodded. “And if we lose, neither will want it.”

Many of the men chuckled and even Cei managed a smile. The young Dukes of Riven and Lorn were cousins, born less than two days apart. They had ascended to their Seats within a year of each other and were alike right down to their taste in women and tinder-dry tempers. Tempers that had flared lately over a woman they both had a taste for.

Rael breathed a quiet prayer of thanks that neither duke was present. In reminding the company of their constant, albeit generally affectionate, bickering, Hale had averted a potentially bad situation. For all his wildman posturings—and the barbaric affectation of his beaded mustache—Hale was a born diplomat. The prince hoped that someday he'd be half that smooth.

“I don't think we've any more to discuss.” Raen leaned forward. “We've had a long day, gentlemen, and we all need some sleep. It'll be more of the same tomorrow.”

The dukes and captains bowed and left, breaking into smaller groups outside the command tent as they headed back to their men. Finally, only Rael remained.

The king stood and put his arm around his son's shoulders as they walked to the open flap.

“I was proud of you today, son. You fought well.”

Rael flushed. “I did no more than any man, sir.”

Raen smiled. “Yes, well, I was proud of them all.”

They ducked out of the tent together and stood breathing deeply, clearing their lungs of candle smoke and their minds momentarily of battle plans. Two of the Palace Guard stepped forward to escort the king to his tent. Raen turned and cupped his son's face between his hands.

“And what did you think of your first day's battle?” he asked quietly.

Rael looked past the numbness that had mercifully continued even after the fighting had finished. “I hated it.”

“Good.” Raen kissed his child on the forehead—yes, still his child in spite of size and age and armor—and allowed the Guard to lead him away.

In the tent he shared with his armsman, Rael stood while Ivan stripped him and sponged off the worst of the battle.

The old servant muttered to himself as he sponged, for purple and green bruises began to show against the clean skin. He wanted to scold but couldn't for fear of waking Rutgar, who already slept, one arm flung up against the light. He turned down the blanket, trimmed the lamp, and would have suggested he pour wine had the prince not dismissed him. Still muttering, he gathered up the day's clothes and left.

Rael threw himself on his pallet and stared up at the canvas above his head.

“Hey.” Rutgar had risen up on one elbow. “You okay?”

Rael turned so he could see his armsman. “I thought you were asleep.”

Rutgar shrugged and grinned. “Nah, who could sleep with all that serving going on.”

Both young men turned their gaze on the outer chamber where Ivan still puttered about, then Rael leaned back and sighed. “Rutgar, you've fought before, haven't you?”

“Yes, Commander, at the Tantac raids two summers ago.”

“How did you feel?”

Rutgar studied the prince's profile. There was a tightness to it that had not been there before. “How do you feel now?” he asked instead of answering.

“Numb. I don't feel anything.”

The armsman nodded. “That's how I felt,” he said and chewed his lip at the memories. “Numb.”

Rael sighed again. “I don't think I like it, this not feeling.”

“Don't worry,” Rutgar's voice was caught in the battles of two summers past, “it wears off.” He reached up and pinched out the lamp. “Good night, Highness.”

*   *   *

The man should have been dead. With every beat of his heart more of his life pumped out the gaping hole in his chest, but still he advanced. His lips drew back in a rictus grin, blackened, rotted and fell away. The flesh of his face writhed with maggots, whole chunks dropping off to expose the yellow skull beneath.

Rael gagged on the stench and tried to back away, but his feet seemed rooted to the ground. He struggled to lift his leg, looked down, and saw that skeletal hands rising out of the earth held him firmly in place. Blackened nails dug into his ankles and anchored themselves by driving deep into his bones.

Still the Melacian spearman advanced, a shambling corpse hardly more than an arm's reach away.

The smell clotted into solid matter in Rael's nose and throat and he gasped for air.

He waved his sword at the monstrosity before him and found to his
horror that the blade had become a strip of birch bark torn from the living surface of his mother's tree. The bark bled and called his name.

He forced enough air into his lungs to scream.

*   *   *

“Highness! Commander! Rael!”

Rutgar's face hung above him and Rutgar's hands were on his shoulders and nothing was coming at him out of the darkness.

Rutgar's mouth twisted in sympathy. “I told you, it wears off,” he said gently.