Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (55 page)

“Kaim, see that—see how their ranks are opening up? Right where we want to go …” He waved his pennant, caught the sergeants’ attention. “Advance! Fast! Now!”

Fox Company’s central formation hit the center of the arc; when the enemy’s front rank gave back, they felt no support behind them. Arcolin could see the mounted men yelling at them, but too late; his formation punched through, and the ends of the arc came together with nothing between them and Cracolnya’s archers shooting into their backs. Even before that, a quarter of the last rank on the south end of the arc had peeled off to stare as Golden Company’s lead cohort and Clart Company took the bridge and then came around the city like a scythe, cutting down the troops left to guard the wall and clearing the west gate, which promptly opened to let Burek, his half-cohort, and an oversized formation of Cilwan militia out and then closed again.

The enemy troops did not yield easily, even so. They still outnumbered Arcolin’s formations, and Burek wasn’t in contact yet.
However disorganized they’d seemed at first, they fought hard once they were close. A lucky shot by one of Cracolnya’s archers took one of their mounted officers, and one of the former Sobanai charged right into their formation and hacked his way—wounded and dying—to hamstring another’s horse. Even when Golden Company and the Clarts arrived, even with Burek’s troops on the scene, it was almost sundown when the last of Alured’s soldiers fell.

Carrion birds had gathered by then, and the stench of death, the cries of the wounded, turned Kaim pale. Arcolin said nothing about it. This was war, and if Kaim wanted to be a soldier, he would have to learn to live with it.

It was full dark, a hot, sultry night, by the time the last Fox Company wagons rolled into the city and the gates closed behind them. Ahead the streets were crowded and noisy; torches burned at every door. In the large market square near the palace, Nasimir Clart raised a cheer as Arcolin rode up, and Sarnol, Golden Company’s senior captain, joined in.

“I didn’t expect you,” Arcolin said to Clart, who grinned.

“Aesil wanted to surprise you,” he said. “And Andressat wanted to be sure there was no more looting in Cortes Cilwan.”

“Also,” Sarnol said, “we have the cub along.” He jerked his head a little, and Arcolin looked that way to see Poldin M’dierra.

“She let him come?”

“She did. Said the lad had to be blooded sometime. Who’s your squire?”

“Kaim, son of the count whose holding is south of mine in Tsaia.” Arcolin eased his back. “You certainly came at the right moment.”

“The luck was with us,” Clart said.

“Camwyn’s Claw,” Sarnol said. “And Esea’s Fire.”

“And as neat a trap as ever we sprung,” Arcolin said. “You’re coming up to the palace later to talk?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’d best get on.”

Kaim said little on the ride to the city, but he dismounted when Arcolin stopped in the palace courtyard and stood ready to hold Arcolin’s mount. “You’ve done well, Kaim,” Arcolin said. “A hard-fought
battle, and you stood firm. When you’ve put the horses away, get a meal and some rest.”

“Yes, my lord.” Kaim led the horses away, and Arcolin saw Burek waiting for him on the palace step.

“My lord, I was never so glad to see you in my life,” Burek said. “I did not doubt you were coming, but some of the new militia were on the point of panic. They’d seen what Immer’s men could do when they held the city before.”

“You held them together very well,” Arcolin said.

Arcolin half expected another attack from downriver, but none came. The few prisoners they’d captured at the end of the battle—all wounded, some fatally—could tell them nothing about Alured’s plans, only insisting that his name was Visli Vaskronin, Duke Immer, not Alured. Where he was or why he had not come to command in person, they did not know.

“I don’t believe he’s dead,” Nasimir Clart said, leaning his elbows on the table. “If he was, you’d have people dancing for joy all the way down the Immer.”

“Except his pirate friends,” Soldan said. “But I do wish we knew what had happened in Fallo.”

The answer came three days later in the person of Count Vladi himself with an escort of four hands of Kostandanyans rather than his own polearm company.

“So, you took Cortes Cilwan back,” he said to Arcolin. “That is good. That man is demon-ridden.”

Arcolin knew he meant Alured. “So Andressat’s son managed to convey,” he said. “Did you know about that?”

“Not until later.” Vladi accepted a seat under the awning of Arcolin’s tent. “I was over there since middle of last campaign season, trying to get Sofi Ganarrion and his daughter out of there, but she was pregnant. I would not say this to everyone, but Fall’s son is useless save for tupping girls.”

“Is he back in Kostandan, then?” Cracolnya asked.

“Sofi? No. And the Duke of Fall and his worthless son are still alive as well, no thanks to the son. No warrior, that one. Fall should disown him and declare one of his nephews his heir. Sofi says he will not go north without the promise of some position in the court and forgiveness for all that happened.”

“I’ve always wondered,” Cracolnya said.

“You will continue so,” Vladi said in a tone that created a long pause in the conversation. Then he heaved a sigh, stroked his pointed beard, now snowy white, and said, “I tell you what I can tell you.
Our
king—” The emphasis was clear. “—he sent shiploads of troops from up north, around the Eastbight in winter, when pirates and spies are few. Though … we killed some.”

“And Alured—Immer—didn’t find out?”

“Not until too late. I had no duty to invade his land; my duty is to protect Ganarrion for his father’s blood’s sake. Immer thought Fallo weak—which it is, or was—and planned to take it to secure his flank. He will not try that again, or not for a long time.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Oh, no. Demon-ridden, as I said. Hard to kill as long as the demon has him. But he took a wound or two and doubtless needed some time in a bed.” Vladi took out a flask and poured three fingers of a clear liquid into a glass. “Let us drink, Captains, to the defeat of enemies and the safety of allies.”

The others poured ale or water as they chose and drank the toast. Vladi stayed until all but Arcolin had gone to bed that night, then spoke. “What is this I hear of demons in the north?”

“Iynisin,” Arcolin said. “Kuaknomi, we call them in Tsaia, or blackcloaks. They attacked.”

“Ah. Very old trouble. Very bad. I hear the silverbloods want to war with them again.”

“Silverbloods?”

Vladi spit. “Those so-called Elders, the tree singers. They would not let us south of the river up there, wanted all for themselves. You know the demons are their cousins—”

Arcolin had never known the Kostandanyans’ opinions about elves were so different from his own. He could not think what to say; Vladi started again.

“They call them dark cousins when they admit their existence at all. That woman silverblood, the Lady you people call her: she drove all the Seafolk out when all we wanted was a little land to farm and the river to fish in. I heard she died last year; one of her own killed her … maybe not a close cousin but a dark one. Good riddance. Phelan the Fox is king now, eh?”

“She was killed by iynisin, yes,” Arcolin said.

Vladi poured himself more of whatever was in his flask. Arcolin was sure it wasn’t water. “I thought, when Kieri Phelan was young, just Halveric’s squire, that he had the look of royalty, but later just a good soldier. That can be enough for a man. And now he’s king up there. I would visit him and toast his success if not that my king tells me to keep watch on Ganarrion.”

Arcolin realized that Vladi was working his way to something. “Do you have a message for him?” he asked, hoping to shorten the ordeal.

“Perhaps,” Vladi said, stiffening again. “I hear he is part silverblood and that deplorable Lady his grandmother … Is that true?”

“Yes,” Arcolin said. “Apparently.”

“What Aliam Halveric told me, years ago … he took the boy in, and the boy had come through the woods from the east.”

“Yes,” Arcolin said again.

“So … then … when I was young, a boy, all our boys go to sea for two winters. And I went to sea as I was bid, and we sailed far out in the eastern ocean and came to land on the other side. And then we sailed back.” He paused to pour and drink another glass. “And there was a man, a magelord of Aare, he said he was, at the port where we landed to sell the fish we had caught, and he questioned the captain of the ship closely about a boy who had run away.”

Arcolin’s skin rose up in gooseflesh. “Did he give his name?” he said.

Vladi looked hard at him, his eyes cold. “Would you know the name if I said it?”

“I might,” Arcolin said.

“That man was demon-ridden, too,” Vladi said. “He looked at me, and I felt fear for the first time. Our captain saw it and sent me below, and they gave me the drink so I vomited out the fear the demon had
put in me. Still I don’t forget. Kieri should be very careful. It was long ago, but the demon-ridden do not die easily. And it comes to me that when Alured the Black was a pirate, it is said he sailed from across the eastern ocean, and … he is demon-ridden.”

“You think it is the same?”

Vladi shrugged. “Who am I to know the ways of demons or which one is which? There is more than one kind, that I know. Very long ago, I think, the Elder demons taught some men how to become demons themselves and how to take the bodies of others and use them so they need not die of age. If Kieri the Fox was ever a demon’s plaything, then despite the years between he might become so again if the demon found him.”

“No!” Arcolin could not help himself. “He would never—not now. He has his own magery.”

“The demon has a magic stone,” Vladi said. His chin was sunk on his chest now, his eyes half closed. “I saw it when I was a lad on our ship, and I saw just such a stone in the hand of that Alured when he invaded Fallo. Red as ruby, but not ruby. A demon stone.” His voice softened. “Might be same stone. Might not. But … I would tell Kieri to be wary.” He was silent a long time; Arcolin waited for him to speak, but then, in one long noisy breath, Vladi started snoring.

In the morning, Vladi swore he remembered nothing of what he’d said and would confirm none of it. “I was drinking spruce,” he said. “I was drunk. Gods only know what I said or what I meant by it. And my head splits with the sunlight and the heat. That is what comes of drinking spruce and talking of demons. I will go back to my work.”

The boy woke. In the dark, he had no idea what time it was, or where, and his head … his head was a strange place, full of empty shelves, shattered boxes, torn fragments of cloth. He reached out his hands … one glowed red as a firecoal, but he could see nothing beyond the dark.

Sense departed; he fell again into heavy sleep and did not know it when a vast shape crept near him, wrapped a long, fiery tongue around him, and drew him once more inside. For a time he dreamed … dreamed of staring into a fire, the flames dancing and writhing, the colors beyond any colors he had seen. He dreamed of melting, of being poured, twisted, and stretched, molded … he dreamed of every good scent a bakery could produce—spices toasted on hot iron, then baked in bread and pastries … he dreamed of lying on a roof somewhere, the sun warming his back.