Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (42 page)

Her own belly trembled with anticipation, the bloodlust of the
dar
rising in her. Fear was a distant emotion. Battle was coming.

Footsteps, muffled by ground still wet from the previous evening’s storm, emphasized by the rattle of armor, approached from behind her. “No word from Khaar Mbar’ost,” said Dagii.

“Did you expect any?” She turned around—and stared for a moment.

Dagii wore the ancestral armor of the warlords of Mur Talaan once more, but it had been cleaned and polished until it flashed even in dawn’s half light. The dents and scratches in the heavy plates were scars of honor. The three tall tribex horns mounted behind his head and shoulders could have been banners.

Dagii’s ears flicked under her gaze, and he bent his head before he answered. “Time is short. Tariic will do better to prepare Rhukaan Draal. Where will you watch the battle?”

“From the command hill. If the
lhevk’rhu
permits it.”

“He will if the
duur’kala
of Kech Volaar promises to retreat to safer ground when the battle turns against us.”

Ekhaas scowled at him.
“Duur’kala
of the Kech Volaar can take care of themselves. You don’t have to worry about me, Dagii.”

“I’m not worried about you.” Dagii’s ears flicked again and his face tightened as he heard his own words. He lowered his voice. “I am worried about you, Ekhaas, but I’m worried about what you’ll carry as well. Senen asked you to record the story of our fight against the Valaes Tairn when we thought there were only warbands in Darguun. Now we’re facing a warclan. You have to survive to carry the tale of what happens today.”

She looked into his eyes, amber meeting gray. “When the time comes,” she said, “I’ll retreat with a sword in my hand and elf blood on my teeth.”

Dagii’s lips twitched, though he managed to keep a stern face.
“Ban,”
he said, but Ekhaas could hear a fierce pride in his voice. Her belly trembled again.

The sun climbed two handspans into the sky.

Below the low hill Dagii had chosen for his command, below the earthen ramparts thrown up to give a measure of cover, warriors waited in close lines. Ekhaas could pick out the individual companies by their crests and their colors, simple strips of cloth tied to armor or polearms. Seven companies of infantry. Two more companies of cavalry, some mounted on horses, others—in the ancient
dar
tradition—on battle-trained great cats. Leopards for goblins, tigers for hobgoblins. The cats were the only things that moved, pacing back and forth under the guidance of their riders, always kept carefully distant from the horses.

“They’re good and hungry,” said one of the handful of warlords Dagii had picked to stand with him on the hill. “Always go into battle on a hungry cat.”

“Hungry enough to keep them keen,” said another, “but not so hungry they stop to tear into prey. That’s one good thing about horses.”

Beyond the lines of the army stretched the rolling grassy plain that would be the battlefield. Short grass waved—except where it had been trampled down in a broad swathe before the army—like
a long green carpet running for leagues into the east between hills on the north and a low ridge to the south. A well-worn dirt track along its center, passing right under the feet of the waiting army. The plain was a natural passage through this part of the land; both it and the track ended at Zarrthec, and together they were much of the reason for the village’s existence.

Tii’ator lay at the far end of the track. Ekhaas’s shoulders itched at the memory of the retreat along the plain after the skirmish with the Valaes Tairn and their discovery in the Mournland. The entire way, she’d expected to feel an elven arrow in her back, though none had come. “They’ll know we’ve found them out,” Dagii had said. “They won’t bother trying to catch us. They’ll launch their attack—and this is the path they’ll travel to reach Rhukaan Draal. They won’t try to hide themselves. They’ll just move fast.”

“We won’t have much time to prepare,” Chetiin had commented.

“No. We won’t.”

Some time later, Ekhaas had realized that Chetiin and Marrow were no longer with them. She hadn’t seen the
shaarat’khesh
elder or the worg since.

Scouts left behind had confirmed Dagii’s prediction. If it hadn’t been for the storm that had rolled through, the warclan that rode under the swallow-tailed banner of stars would have been on top of them in the night.

On the track far out in front of the army, on the very edge of the trampled area, a solitary figure waited on a fine bay horse. Keraal.

The clear sound of a horn broke the air—and ended in a discordant honk as if the scout who’d blown it had succumbed to a sudden, fatal wound. The first death of the day, thought Ekhaas.

“They’re close,” said Dagii. “Drummers and pipers, as I ordered.”

A drum just behind Ekhaas began a low, slow beat. Warpipes droned. More drums and pipes scattered through the companies below joined in.

The first elves appeared over a rise in the distance, slim red-robed forms on white horses.

Some paused to stare at the Darguuls gathered before them. Others turned and raced back, maybe to alert their leaders. Still others continued to ride on until Ekhaas could see eyes above veils and arrows
nocked on bows, but even they stopped just out of bow range of the waiting army.

The Valaes Tairn rode in clusters or alone. They had no structure, no formations, no discipline. As increasing numbers appeared and rode up to the edge of range, their lines remained ragged and shifting. If there were officers among them, Ekhaas couldn’t pick them out—or even detect their influence. When the lord of the warclan finally appeared, it was almost a surprise. Only the large, dark crystal that sparkled in his helmet set him apart from other warriors. Even the bearer of the swallow-tailed starry banner seemed more to linger near him than to ride at his side. Ekhaas saw the lord of the warclan speak to one, then another, of the elves close to him, then for a long time, he simply sat and watched the
dar
.

Drummers and pipers played on.

“I have heard that one of the most difficult things about fighting the Valaes Tairn,” Dagii had said the previous night, “is drawing them into a battle. They fall back before a charge. They ride around a stand. They come to a fight on their own terms. Victory is victory.”

“How do you intend to engage them, then?” a warlord had asked.

“We make them curious,” Dagii had said, ears flicking. “Then we give them a reason to fight.”

On the battlefield, Keraal shook out and raised a banner. Tall and narrow, it had until last night been the red silk lining of a warlord’s fine cloak. Now it carried a crest of three black rings, one above the other, each with three stretched slashes along the outside, like a sword blade bent into a circle with the notched edge out. Ekhaas’s heart soared, not just because she’d been the one to supply the design, but for sheer awe at the sight of a banner that had not been raised over a
dar
army since the beginning of the Desperate Times. Atop the command hill and on the battlefield, she saw warlords and warriors alike stand straighter as they gazed on the crest, ears rising proudly, as instinct stirred in them.

Words rose in her, and her voice rang over the sound of pipes and drums. “As the armies of the Dhakaani emperor fought, so shall we! Behold the
Riis Shaarii’mal!
Behold the Three Tearing Wheels of Dhakaan!”

“Give honor!” shouted Dagii from her side.

Nine companies of disciplined
dar
warriors responded in unison, fists striking chests in a single salute sharp as a crack of thunder.

The Valaes Tairn shifted warily. Ekhaas bared her teeth. The elves knew their ancient enemy—and they knew the symbols of Dhakaan. The
Riis Shaarii’mal
had flown above countless battles between
dar
and elves in the time of the empire. To bring it forth again was a challenge, a declaration of rivalry. The leader of the warclan leaned over and spoke with one of the elves beside him. The rider nodded and urged his horse down to meet Keraal.

“Only one?” growled a warlord on the hill.

“Patience,” said Dagii.

Drums and pipes fell silent. The elf reined in his horse a few paces from Keraal. The hobgoblin raised the red banner. “I speak for Dagii of Mur Talaan,
lhevk-rhu
of these warriors!” he roared in Goblin.

Behind his veil, the elf’s eyes narrowed in disdain. He answered in the musical tones of Elven, lilting nonsense to many of the
dar
on the battlefield but clear to Ekhaas. “I speak for Seach Torainar, high warleader of the Sulliel warclan—”

“Now,” said Dagii.

The drummer behind Ekhaas brought a stick down hard on the skin of his instrument.

On either side of Keraal, the trampled sod rose and flew back. Goblins hidden in camouflaged pockets popped up onto their knees, raised compact crossbows, and sighted. The waiting elves jerked in surprise. The elf who had ridden forward cried out and started to wheel his horse, but he was too slow. Ten bowstrings sang and ten bolts flew—

—and ten scarlet flowers blossomed on the white hide of the elf’s horse. The animal wore light barding, but it wasn’t armored everywhere and the goblin bolts sought any exposed flesh. The horse screamed and bucked at the pain, fighting its rider’s attempts at control. The goblins were up and running from their hiding places, racing up the dirt track to join the army. Keraal turned his horse and retreated as well, but slowly, mockingly. Bows rose among the waiting elves and arrows buzzed but
they were too far and their own man, struggling with his horse, blocked true aim.

The wounded horse shrieked again. It stumbled once and its hindquarters collapsed as the strandpine sap that had coated the goblins’ crossbow bolts burned into its blood. The elf leaped from the saddle and stared in horror at his crippled mount trying to drag itself with its forelegs. Its hind legs kicked uselessly. Then the elf wailed nearly as loudly as his horse, drew his scimitar and leaped forward to slash the beast’s throat. Blood sprayed him, dark against scarlet robes. The horse’s screams fell silent, but the elf’s did not. Still wailing like a madman, he turned and raced after Keraal.

His cries were joined by others as the ragged lines of the Valenar broke and elves streamed into battle.

The only things they hold sacred
, Chetiin had once said,
are their ancestors and their horses
.

Keraal put spurs to his horse and galloped up the track, the
Riis Shaarii’mal
snapping in the wind of his passage. Arrows loosed by the charging Valenar traced a dark line behind him. Ekhaas stole a glance at Dagii. The young warlord’s face was hard, his eyes intent. He held his left hand in the air, waiting … waiting …

He brought it down. The piercing voice of the warpipes rose.

And out at the edge of the battlefield, just behind the holes left by the emergence of the goblin snipers, long ropes snapped up from among the grass, pulled tight by teams of bugbears lurking in the thin woods on either side of the plain. Shards of broken glass worked in among the fibers glittered in the sunlight.

Charging horses hit the ropes hard. The trees to which they had been lashed thrashed violently, and the heavy stakes that anchored them on the battlefield leaped. The long ropes sagged and snapped, but their damage was done. Horses whinnied and fell, tumbling like toys. They screamed at broken and slashed legs, and their struggling bodies brought down more horses that weren’t quick enough to turn sharply or jump high. Some struggled back to their feet. Others didn’t rise at all. The first charge of the Valaes Tairn had been broken. But there would be another.

An outraged voice roared in Elvish for an attack, and those elves who had held back surged forward.

“Form up!” ordered Dagii and the great drum beat the signal. Lesser drums took it up and the Darguul lines folded and split. Seven squares formed up on the battlefield, shields locked together. Dagii snapped more commands, and five of the squares moved to meet the oncoming elves, warpipes wailing in their midst. Archers among the two companies that remained in the rear sent clouds of arrows arcing down ahead of the marching companies. The elves answered with arrows of their own—arrows that rattled as harmlessly as hail on the locked shields.

Above the din of battle, Ekhaas didn’t hear Keraal approach, but suddenly he was there. In his hand was clenched the
Riis Shaarii’mal
. He dropped to one knee and held it out to Dagii. The warlord clapped a fist to his chest.

“
Ta muut,”
he said.

Keraal’s ears flicked. He rose and stabbed the banner’s shaft into the soft ground of the earthworks at the brow of the hill.

The first wave of Valaes Tairn closed on the Darguuls. The beat of the drum changed, and the squares stopped, two ahead, three behind. Shields parted slightly and spears thrust through. The armored turtles of the squares abruptly became bristling porcupines. Charging elves screamed and howled, demons in their flying red robes. They slashed at the air with their scimitars. Even on the hill, Ekhaas thought she could feel the earth trembling beneath the driving hooves of their horses. She had heard stories that during the Last War, human armies that had faced a Valenar charge had often crumbled before a blow was struck, their lines broken by sheer terror.