Brightly Burning (57 page)

They'd gotten a full eight candlemarks of sleep in a complete camp with tents and fires at their last pause, though it had not made them into fresh men, just less exhausted ones. Now, with four candlemarks of marching to bring them to the pass before them, their energy dared not flag. They daren't come up exhausted, when no one knew what they'd face at the end of the march. Pol knew that the Commanders had some hope that they'd be able to get more rest at the unnamed pass itself, but the Karsites had put on an unexpected burst of speed, and now the army was marching at a desperate pace to meet them. The only creature with any hope of standing between the Karsites and Valdemar was Lavan Firestorm.

The Karsites were expected to reach the pass about now—early morning. The Valdemaran army hoped to arrive before noon. That was a lot of time for something to go wrong; a lot of time for Lan to exhaust himself or be captured—

:Lan will not be captured,:
Satiran said firmly.
:Kalira would never allow it. He is holding the pass with surprising skill. The limiting factor is the amount of fuel for his fires.:

If Lan exhausted the fuel, could he still hold the pass?

Pol wished he had Satiran's self-assurance that what he had taught wasn't flawed.

:How long?:
he fretted.
:How long until we're there?:

Satiran raised his head from the trail, and pointed his long nose at one mountain among many piercing the clear morning sky.
:That's the peak that Lan is on; I think we will be there in two candlemarks or thereabouts. Look! See the smoke?:

Lan's fires produced very little smoke, burning as hot as they did, but through Satiran's eyes, Pol saw there was a haze of smoke around the north side of the peak.

Pol nodded; that was what
he
would have done. Depending on how long Lan could hold that barrier, and how much he had to move it when the fuel was gone, he could keep the Karsites back for more than the couple of candlemarks it would take for the army to reach him.

Candlemarks! That was too long—too long! He had to force himself to ride easily and not strain toward that far-off goal.
What wouldn't I give for a way to get us all there now!

:I can't reach Kalira.:
It was Satiran's turn to fret, and Pol felt his muscles straining for a couple of strides, until he realized it would be foolhardy to try and outrun the rest of the army.

:You already knew you wouldn't be able to,:
Pol reminded him.
:If he's holding something that large, she'll have all she can do to keep him under control. I wish they'd put Tuck up there with him, though.:

Satiran's sides heaved beneath his legs as his Companion groaned.
:But when the Karsites start breaking through—and they will—Tuck is more use down with the scouts.:

Every horseman in the cavalry had a bowman up behind him, and these troops, with the Heralds (also carrying double, with the exception of Pol), were the vanguard of the army. They were already making the best pace they could. Horses would break down under the pace a Companion could set.

“Pol. I want you to relay an order to the Heralds,” the Lord Marshal said, cutting across his thoughts and fretting.

Pol turned his bandaged eyes obediently towards the Lord Marshal riding on his right. “Sir?”

“Send the Heralds and their archers on ahead. I know that the Companions can make better time than this—and it may be that a few men in place early can do more than many men arriving too late.” The Lord Marshal paused, and then continued, “You may go yourself, if you wish.”

Oh, he wished, oh—
how
he wished! But blind as he was, he would be useless as a fighter, for not even Satiran could help him aim a bow—while here at the Lord Marshal's side, he would be able to relay messages directly to the leader of their forces. “No, my Lord. My place is with you. But allow me a moment—”

:Heralds!:
he called, his mind-voice given strength by Satiran.
:The Lord Marshal commands that you and your Companions ride ahead, carrying your archers, to hold the line until the rest of us arrive.:

A ragged cheer greeted his order, and all across the front of the great mass of riders, silver-white Companions, and blue-clad archers leaped ahead like arrows speeding from bows. There were a hundred or so Heralds racing on ahead, with as many additional archers riding pillion behind. It was a thrilling and beautiful sight, the Companions flying smoothly over the white snow with shimmering manes and tails streaming behind them. They hardly seemed to touch the snow as they ran, with their Heralds and archers bent closely down over their backs. Those archers were the finest master marksmen in Valdemar, and instead of baggage, they all carried extra quivers. As they vanished into the trees, Pol and Satiran yearned after them, sending all the strength they could spare to speed them on their way.

LAN gnawed his lip in anger and frustration, tasting blood but feeling nothing but rage. “Leave!” he shouted at the tiny milling specks below. “Why won't you
leave?
” He sneezed as a wisp of smoke tickled his nose. He'd already shed his cloak and gloves; he wasn't cold anymore. Far from it; he didn't need the fire at his side to stay warm anymore.

He'd held them in this narrow passage for as long as the fuel for his fires was there. He couldn't burn air—well, he could, but not for long—and they
still
weren't giving up! He knew now to the thumb's length the size of the barrier he could hold, and if he moved it either farther back or farther forward where there was more fuel, some of them would be able to get around it.

Damn!
He sensed the fires below beginning to flicker, and prepared to move them—

Then—a plan flashed across his mind, whole and entire, and he grinned savagely and hugged Kalira's neck, letting her see and rejoice in it a heartbeat before he put it into motion.

He dropped the barrier altogether; gave them a flicker of time to gape in astonishment, another for their officers to order them forward.
Then
—with a
whoosh
like a windstorm—he flung up a new barrier just at the Valdemar side of the blackened, burned strip where there still fuel left to catch fire. It nearly caught the foremost ones, and he laughed savagely to see them spill backward to escape being toasted.

Kalira trembled beneath his arm in reaction to his anger, but the anger was what fed the fires, and he couldn't do this without it.

Now he made a virtue of necessity, as the fire crept back toward Valdemar, allowing a stretch of climbable slope to remain unprotected on the farther side of the mountain. Would they see it? Would they take the bait?

Only fanatics would have scrambled up those tumbled, ice-covered rocks with a fire raging in their faces, but twenty or thirty of the Karsites did just that. And Lan allowed them to slip across. There were, after all, twenty or so Valdemaran scouts on this side, just waiting for a target that they could shoot full of arrows!

But before anyone else took courage from that move, he slid the barrier over, so that the gap was now on the opposite side. But this time, it was a gap bordered by cliff on one side, and fire on the other; anyone who dared it would not be able to escape by climbing higher if the fires moved again.

No one tried it. Not all the exhortations of the officers could force Karsite fighters into the jaws of
that
trap. Lan chuckled with angry pleasure, as shouts came to him faintly from below.
Good! Fight among each other! The more you fight, the better for us!

Perhaps it was the presence of the Dark Servants that kept the rank and file from revolting entirely against their leaders. Despite the loss of their shrine and their execution fires, the sinister priests remained at the forefront of the army, given wide berth by the common soldiers, but an ever-present threat against desertion. Perhaps there were more of them at the rear of the army; that would explain why Lan hadn't been able to get the Karsites to retreat.

:There are,:
Kalira said shortly.
:The Karsites fear their priests more than our fires. So far they have been too busy preventing desertion to call up any of their demons, but if we give them a moment of rest, they will. They don't
need
a ritual fire—a knife to a victim's neck will do just as well.:

More activity down below hinted that the leaders had gotten enough volunteers to agree to attempt the gap—so before they could try, Lan shifted the fire-line backward and to the side again, closing the gap, but leaving the slope open once more.

“Try it again, you bastards!” he shouted down at them, keeping his anger as hot as the fires, though his knees quaked with exertion and his hands shook. He balled his trembling hands into fists and brandished them at the men below. “Go ahead and see what you get!”

Pol clenched both hands in Satiran's mane with relief. “The Heralds have gotten to the battlefield. Lavan is holding the pass, my Lord,” he said to the Lord Marshal. “Evidently he can't keep it completely blocked, but he's managing it so that only small groups are getting through at the moment, small enough that our Heralds and archers can deal with them.”

He sensed the Lord Marshal's relief, but it was only momentary. “The boy can't hold forever,” came the gruff reply. Pol heard nothing more, but knew that the Lord Marshal had retreated within himself weighing alternate plans.

“Pass the word,” Weldon said at last. “I want the light cavalry to drop their archers and proceed ahead at their best speed. Have the heavy cavalry take the archers left behind at their stirrups.” A man hanging onto a stirrup could make better time than one without that aid; it would slow this group a bit, but the light cavalry, skirmishers all, were of more use sent ahead. They couldn't be more than a candlemark from the battlefield now.

Satiran tossed his head with excitement, as he and Pol watched the nimble, lightly-built horses, black and sorrel, chestnut and gray, leaping forward into the snow, blue-clad riders bent over their necks, blue-and-silver lance pennons lashing in the wind. Hooves thundered away into the trees ahead, leaving behind only the echoes of their departure rumbling between the mountains above, and the churned-up snow below.

The departure of the light cavalry seemed to somehow give more energy to the rest of the army. Or perhaps it was that the battle was so near at hand—but drooping heads came up, weary eyes sparked with excitement, and plodding feet found the strength to pick up the pace.

More mind-voices gave Pol information.
:He's moving the barrier again—about a hundred got through this time. No casualties so far, but we haven't had to close hand-to-hand yet, we're picking them off from a distance. Damn! Archers through this time! One scout, three archers down—:

He relayed all this faithfully to the Lord Marshal, his voice tense with anxiety, although they both knew that these were the merest of skirmishes.

That announcement sent a shiver of excitement through the entire army as it spread from man to man. Another surge of new energy—this time born of the rivalry between light and heavy cavalry, cavalry and foot soldiers.

“C'mon, men!” Pol heard someone shout, back behind him. “Ye want them prancin' pony riders t'steal all the glory?”

A roar answered the taunt, and the pace picked up yet again, to something near what fresh men could manage. Pol and Satiran needed no urging to take a harder pace.