Dragons of a Fallen Sun, page 53
Silvan was grave, solemn for a moment. “Battles are chancy things, Samar used to say. One man’s bravery may save the day. One man’s cowardice may spoil it. That is what I fear most, Cousin. More than death. I fear that I will turn coward and flee the field. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen good men, brave men fall to their knees and tremble and weep like little children.”
“Your mother’s courage flows in your veins along with your father’s fortitude:’ Kiryn reassured him. “You will not fail their memories. You will not fail your people. You will not fail yourself.”
Silvan drew in a deep breath of the flower-scented air, let it out slowly. The sunshine was like warm honey spilling from the sky. All around him were familiar sounds and smells, sounds of battle and war, smells of leather and sweat sounds and smells he had been born to, sounds and smells he had come to loathe but which, oddly, he had also come to miss. His playground had been a battlefield, a command tent his cradle. He was more at home here, he realized, than he was in his fine castle. Smiling ruefully, he walked out of his tent his armor of silver and gold gleaming brightly, to be greeted by the enthusiastic cheers of his people.
The battle plans for both sides were simple. The elves formed ranks across the field, with the archers in the rear. The army of the Knights of Neraka extended their thinner lines among the trees of the low hillside, hoping to tempt the elves into attacking rashly, attacking up hill.
Konnal was far too smart to fall for that. He was patient if his troops were not and he kept fast hold of them. He had time, all the time in the world. The army of the Knights of Neraka, running low on supplies, did not.
Toward midafternoon, a single braying trumpet sounded from the hills. The elves gripped their weapons. The army of darkness came out of the hills on the run, shouting insults and defiance to their foes. Arrows from both sides arced into the skies, forming a canopy of death above the heads of the armies, who came together with a resounding crash.
When battle was joined, Silvan and his mounted escort galloped into the woods on the west side of the battlefield. Their small force screened by the trees, they rode around the flank of their own army, crossed over enemy lines, and rode around the enemy’s flank. No one noticed them. No one shouted or called out. Those fighting saw only the foe before them. Arriving at a point near the edge of the field, Silvan called a halt, raising his hand. He rode cautiously to the edge of the forest, taking the commander of the general’s guard with him. The two looked out upon the field of battle.
“Send out the scouting party,” Silvan ordered. “Bring back word the moment they have located the enemy commanders.”
The scouts proceeded ahead through the woods, edging closer to the field of battle. Silvan waited, watching the progress of the war.
Combat was hand to hand. The archers on both sides were now effectively useless, with the armies locked together in a bloody embrace. At first, Silvan could make nothing of the confusion he looked upon, but after watching several moments, it seemed to him that the elf army was gaining ground.
“A glorious victory already, Your Majesty,” his commander said in triumph. “The vermin are falling back!”
“Yes, you are right,” Silvan replied, and he frowned.
“Your Majesty does not seem pleased. We are crushing the human insects!”
“So it would seem,” said Silvan. “But if you look closely, Commander, you will note that the enemy is not running in panic. They are falling back, certainly, but their movements are calculated, disciplined. See how they hold their line? See how one man steps in to take the place if another falls? Our troops, on the other hand,” he added with disgust, “have gone completely berserk!”
The elves, seeing the enemy in retreat, had broken ranks and were flailing at the enemy in a murderous rage, heedless of the shouts and cries of their commanders. Competing trumpet calls sounded over the screams of the wounded and dying, fighting their own battle. Silvan noted that the Dark Knights listened closely for their trumpet calls and responded immediately to the brayed commands, while the maddened elves were deaf to all.
“Still,” Silvan said, “we cannot help but win, seeing that we outnumber them so greatly. The only way could possibly lose would be to turn our swords on ourselves. I will have a few words with General Konnal on my return, however. Samar would never permit such a lack of discipline.”
“Your Majesty!” One of the scouts returned, riding at a full gallop. “We have located the officers!”
Silvan turned his horse’s head, rode after the scout. They had advanced only a short way through the forest, before they met up with another scout, who had been left to keep watch.
He pointed. “There, Your Majesty. On that rise. They’re easy to see.”
So they were. A huge minotaur, the first Silvan had ever seen, stood upon the rise. The minotaur wore the regalia of a Knight of Neraka. A massive sword was buckled at his side. He was watching the progress of the battle intently. Twelve more Knights, mounted on horses, were also observing the battle. Beside them stood the standard-bearer, holding a flag that might have once been white, but was now a dirty brownish red color, as if it had been soaked in blood. An aide stood nearby, holding the reins of a magnificent red horse.
“Surely the minotaur is their commander,” Silvan said. “We were misinformed.”
“No, Your Majesty,” the scout replied. “See there, behind the minotaur. That is the commander, the one with the blood-red sash.”
Silvan could not see her, at first and then the minotaur stepped to one side to confer with another of the Knights. Behind him, a slight, delicate human female stood on a knoll, her gaze fixed with rapt intensity upon the battle. She carried her helm beneath her arm. A morning star hung from a belt at her waist.
“That is their commander?” Silvan said, amazed. “She does not look old enough to be attending her first dance, much less leading seasoned troops into battle.”
As if she had heard him, though that was impossible, for she was a good forty yards distant, she turned her face toward him. He felt himself suddenly exposed to her view, and he backed up hurriedly, keeping to the deep shadows of the dense woods.
She stared in his direction for long moments, and Silvan was certain that they had been seen. He was about to order his men forward, when she turned her head away. She said something to the minotaur, apparently, for he left his conference and walked over to her. Even from this distance, Silvan could see that the minotaur regarded the girl with the utmost respect, even reverence. He listened intently to her orders, looked over his shoulder at the battle and nodded his homed head.
He turned and, with a wave of his hand, summoned the mounted Knights. With a roar, the minotaur ran forward toward the rear of his own lines. The Knights galloped after him, with what purpose Silvan could not tell. A countercharge, perhaps.
“Now is our chance, Your Majesty!” said the commander excitedly. “She stands alone.”
This was beyond all possible luck, so far beyond that Silvan mistrusted his good fortune. He hesitated before ordering his men forward, fearing a trap.
“Your Majesty!” the commander urged. “What are you waiting for?”
Silvan looked and looked. He could see no troops lying in ambush. The mounted Knights of the enemy were riding away from their commander.
Silvan spurred his horse and galloped forward, the other soldiers streaming behind him. They rode with the swiftness of an arrow, with Silvan as the silver arrowhead, aiming straight at the enemy’s heart. They were halfway to their destination before anyone was aware of them. The girl kept her gaze fixed on her forces. It was her standard-bearer who spotted them. He cried out and pointed. The red horse lifted its head, whinnied loud enough to rival the trumpets.
At the sound, the minotaur halted in his charge and turned around.
Silvan kept the minotaur in the corner of his eye as he rode, dug his spurs into his horse’s flank, urging more speed. The mad race was exhilarating. A skilled rider, he outdistanced his bodyguard. He was not far from his objective now. She must have heard the pounding hooves, but still she did not turn her head.
A great and terrible roar sounded over the battlefield. A roar of grief and rage and fury. A roar so horrible that the sound caused Silvan’s stomach to shrivel and brought beads of sweat to his forehead. He looked to see the minotaur rushing for him, a great sword raised to cleave him in twain. Silvan gritted his teeth and pressed the horse forward. If he could lay his hands on the girl, he would use her as both shield and hostage.
The minotaur was extraordinarily fast. Though he was on foot and Silvan was mounted, it seemed that the racing minotaur must reach Silvan before Silvan’s horse could reach the enemy commander. Silvan looked from the minotaur to the girl. She had still taken no notice of him. She seemed completely unaware of her danger. Her gaze was fixed upon the minotaur.
“Galdar,” she called, her voice beautifully clear, oddly deep.
“Remember your oath.”
Her voice resounded over the cries and screams and clashing steel. The call acted upon the minotaur like a spear to his heart. He ceased his furious rush. He stared at her, his gaze pleading.
She did not relent, or so it seemed. She shifted her gaze from him to the heavens. The minotaur gave another howl of rage and then plunged his sword into the ground, drove it into the cornfield with such force that he buried it halfway to the hilt.
Silvan galloped up the rise. At last the girl shifted her gaze from the heavens. She turned her eyes full upon Silvan. Amber eyes. Silvan had never seen the like. Her eyes did not repel him but drew him forward. He rode toward her, and he could see nothing but her eyes. It seemed he was riding into them.
She clasped her morning star, hefted it in her hand, and stood waiting him fearlessly.
Silvan dashed his horse up the small rise, came level with the girl. She struck at him with the morning star, a blow he deflected easily, kicking it aside with his foot. Another kick knocked the morning star from her hand and sent her staggering backward. She lost her balance, fell heavily to the ground. His guards surrounded her. The guards killed her standard-bearer and made an attempt to seize the horse, but the animal lashed out with its hooves. Breaking free of the holder, the horse charged straight for the rear lines, as if it would join the battle alone and riderless.
The girl lay stunned on the ground. She was covered with blood, but he could not tell if it was hers or that of her standardbearer, who lay decapitated by her side.
Fearing she would be trampled, Silvan furiously ordered his guards to keep back. He slid from his horse, ran to the girl and lifted her in his arms. She moaned, her eyes fluttered. He breathed again. She was alive.
“I will take her, Your Majesty,” offered his commander.
Silvan would not give her up. He placed her on his saddle, climbed up behind her. Clasping one arm around her tightly, he took hold of the reins in the other. Her head rested against his silver breastplate. He had never in his life seen any face so delicate, so perfectly formed, so beautiful. He cradled her tenderly, anxiously.
“Ride!” he ordered and he started for the woods, riding swiftly, but not so swiftly that he risked jarring her.
He rode past the minotaur, who was on his knees beside his buried sword, his horned head bowed in grief.
“What do you men think you are doing?” Silvan demanded. Several of the elves were starting to ride in the minotaur’s direction, their swords raised. “He is not a threat to us. Leave him.”
“He is a minotaur, Your Majesty. He is always a threat,” protested the commander.
“Would you kill him unarmed and unresisting?” Silvan demanded sternly.
“He would have no compunction killing us, if the situation was reversed,” the commander replied grimly.
“And so now we are reduced to the level of beasts,” Silvan said coldly. “I said leave him, Commander. We have achieved our objective. Let us get out of here before we are overrun.”
Indeed, that seemed likely. The army of the Knights of Neraka was falling back rapidly now. Their retreat was in good order, they were keeping their lines intact. Silvan and his Knights galloped from the field, Silvan bearing their prize proudly in his arms.
He reached the shadows of the trees. The girl stirred and moaned again and opened her eyes.
Silvan looked down into them, saw himself encased in amber.
The girl was a docile captive, causing no trouble, accepting her fate without complaint. When they arrived back in camp, she refused Silvan’s offers of assistance. Sliding gracefully from Silvan’s horse, she gave herself willingly into custody. The elves clapped iron manacles on her wrists and ankles and marched her into a tent that was furnished with nothing but a pallet of straw and a blanket.
Silvan followed her. He could not leave her.
“Are you wounded? Shall I send the healers to you?”
She shook her head. She had not spoken a word to him or to anyone. She refused his offer of food and drink.
He stood at the entrance to the prison tent, feeling helpless and foolish in his regal armor. She, by contrast, blood-covered and in chains, was calm and self-possessed. She sat down crosslegged on her blanket, stared unblinking into the darkness. Silvan left the tent with the uncomfortable feeling that he was the one who had been taken prisoner.
“Where is Glaucous?” Silvan demanded. “He wanted to question her.”
But no one could say what had become of Glaucous. He had not been seen since the start of the battle;
“Let me know when he comes to interrogate her,” Silvan commanded and went to his tent to remove his armor. He held still this time, still and unmoving, as his squire detached the buckles and lifted the armor from him piece by piece.
“Congratulations, Cousin!” Kiryn entered the tent, ducking through the tent flap. “You are a hero! I will not need to write your song, after all. Your people are already singing it!” He waited for a laughing response, and when it did not come, he looked at Silvan more closely. “Cousin? What is it? You don’t look well. Are you wounded?”
“Did you see her, Kiryn?” Silvan asked. “Go away!” he shouted irritably at his squire. “Get out. I can finish this myself.”
The squire bowed and left. Silvan sat down upon his cot, one boot on and one boot off.
“Did I see the prisoner? Only a glimpse,” Kiryn said. “Why?”
“What did you think of her?”
“She is the first human I have ever seen, and I did not find her as ugly as I had been led to believe. Still, I thought her extremely strange. Bewitching. Uncanny.” Kiryn grimaced. “And is it now the custom among human females to shave their heads?”
“What? Oh, no. Perhaps it is the custom of the Knights of Neraka.” Silvan sat with his boot in his hand, staring at the darkness and seeing amber eyes. “I thought her beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
Kiryn sat down beside his cousin. “Silvan, she is the enemy. Because of her, hundreds of our people lie dead or dying in that blood-soaked field.”
“I know. I know!” Silvan cried, standing up. He tossed the boot into the comer. Sitting down, he began to tug viciously on the other. “She wouldn’t say a word to me. She wouldn’t tell me her name. She just looked at me with those strange eyes.”
“Your Majesty.” An officer appeared at the entrance. “General Konnal has asked me to relate to you the news. The day is ours. We have won.”
Silvan made no response. He had ceased to tug on the boot, was once again staring into the dark tent comer.
Kiryn rose, went outside. “His Majesty is fatigued,” he said.
“I’m certain he is overjoyed.”
“Then he’s the only one,” said the officer wryly.
Victory belonged to the elves, but few in the elven camp that night rejoiced. They had halted the enemy’s advance, driven him back, kept him from reaching Silvanost, but they had not destroyed him. They counted thirty human bodies upon the field of battle, not four hundred as they had anticipated. They laid the blame to a strange fog that had arisen from the river, a dank, chill gray fog that hung low over the ground, a swirling, obfuscating fog that hid foe from foe, comrade from comrade. In this fog, the enemy had simply disappeared, vanished, as if the blood-soaked ground had opened up and swallowed him.
“Which is probably exactly what happened,” said General Konnal to his officers. “They had their escape arranged in advance. They retreated, and when the fog came, they ran to their hideout. They are skulking about in the caves somewhere near here.”
“To what purpose, General?” Silvan demanded impatiently.
The king was feeling irritable and out of sorts, restless and antsy. He left his tent that was suddenly cramped and confining, came to confer with the officers. Silvan’s courage had been praised and lauded. He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour, as even General Konnal admitted. Silvan cared nothing for their praise. His gaze shifted constantly to the tent where the girl was being held prisoner.
“The humans have no food, no supplies,” he continued, “and no way of obtaining any. They are cut off, isolated. They know that they can never take Silvanost now. Surely, if anything, they will attempt to retreat back to the borders.”
“They know we would cut them down if they tried that,” Konnal said. “Yet, you are right, Your Majesty, they cannot remain in hiding forever. Sooner or later they must come out, and then we will have them. I just wish I knew,” he added, more to himself than to anyone else, “what they are planning. For there was a plan here as certain as I live and breathe.”
His officers offered various theories: The humans had panicked and were now scattered to the four winds, the humans had descended below ground in hopes of finding tunnels that would lead them back north, and so on and so forth. Each theory had its opponents, and the elves argued among themselves. Growing weary of the debate, Silvan left abruptly, walked out into the night.
