Chapter 8

 

 

Innowen held the reins of their horses while he waited for Razkili to emerge from the tent. Darkness had fallen. All around, Taelyn's soldiers hurried to complete preparations for battle. They moved with speed and surety and relative quiet. Taelyn had changed his order, allowing a few small fires, which dotted the landscape and made a ruddy chiaroscuro of the faces of men who gathered near them. The flames gleamed on the burnished helms and greaves of the higher ranking soldiers as they passed, giving orders in low voices.

A hushed expectation hung over the army. Every sound seemed muted and distant. Even the four-spoked wheels of the light war chariots made little noise as they formed a line at the edge of the camp.

Veydon and three other men approached, their arms full of packs and bags. "Commander Taelyn thanks you for the gift of your extra horse," he said to Innowen. "May we place your belongings inside your tent?"

Innowen nodded without speaking and watched as the four went inside with his collected treasures. Even a poor packhorse was too valuable to be left behind when a common hoplite soldier might be turned into a more efficient cavalryman. Nor did he begrudge its loss, considering the beautiful gift of armor Taelyn had made to Razkili.

The three pack-bearing soldiers emerged and returned to their own preparations. Moments later, Razkili and Veydon appeared. Innowen regarded his companion with a mixture of worry and approval. The copper greaves and arm braces he wore gleamed with inlaid silver traceries. The new leather that lined and made them comfortable gave off a pungent odor. On his right arm he bore a small round shield entirely of metal, a rarity, decorated in relief with battle scenes. Innowen worried about its weight, though Razkili said nothing. Under his left arm, he carried a bronze helm. Its nasal bar and cheek-pieces nearly met, so closely did it guard the face, and a bright crest of crimson-dyed horse hair cascaded over the top and down the back. From a strap over one shoulder he wore a short, straight-bladed sword. His only other garment, like most of the mounted soldiers, was a brief black kilt.

"Your friend was very generous," Razkili said of Taelyn. "These are finely made pieces. I had to widen the braces a little to make them fit; my forearms are bigger. I hope he won't mind."

The pieces were from Taelyn's ceremonial armor, which explained their beauty and workmanship. The commander had planned to wear them when he reentered Parendur after a successful engagement with Chohlit. Instead, he had offered them to Razkili for the upcoming battle, preferring to fight in his familiar war-worn pieces.

"I doubt the commander would have given them to you," Veydon said with a smirk, "if he expected to have them returned in perfect condition."

"The shield is too heavy," Innowen commented critically. "You should take a wicker shield or one of the wood and leather ones."

"I can manage," Razkili answered. "This metal will turn a point far better."

"Not if you can't get it up in time."

Razkili transferred the helm under his right arm to his shield arm and patted his friend's shoulder. "You worry too much," he chided.

Their gazes met, but Innowen kept his silence. It would do no good to argue. They had done too much of that already. Yet he resented being left behind. While night cloaked the world, he could ride and fight as well as any man. Both Razkili and Taelyn had denied him that right, though, as if he were still handicapped and some kind of liability.

Veydon broke the tension. "I've got to finish my own preparations," he said. He wore neither weapons, nor armor, only the black kilt and his sandals. "But I make you this offer, Osiri. If you are unhorsed you'll need a spear-mate to fight at your back. Mine was killed in the clash with Chohlit, so my back is also bare. Do we suit each other?"

"You honor me," Razkili answered. "Draw your horse beside mine when we join the line."

Veydon nodded, then clasped Innowen's shoulder before he left them. Innowen watched him disappear between a pair of tents.

"I should be your spear-mate," he said to Razkili when they were alone, "instead of watching everything from the safety of some hilltop."

Razkili took his reins from Innowen's hand. There was a stubborn look on his face. "And if the fighting continued past dawn, what then?"

Innowen turned away. "It won't."

"It could," Razkili snapped in a whisper. Clearly, he was tired of the argument. "We've got a good ride ahead of us, yet, and it will be well past midnight when the first arrows fly. Now mount up. We should join the line."

Innowen bit his lip and fumed. "Give me your damned helmet, then. You can't mount with all that."

Razkili looked at him for a moment, then put on a strained grin and shook his head as Innowen took both his helmet and shield and held them while he bellied onto his horse's back. "Thank you," he offered, taking them again.

Innowen gave a bare acknowledgment as he climbed upon his own horse.

A rider passed through the camp, issuing a last call to form ranks. Innowen gave a quick glance around. Most of the fires had been extinguished, and there was no moonlight yet. Shadowy forms moved quietly and quickly among the tents, heeding the calls of shadow captains, streaming out over the dark land, all gathering in a huge mass beyond the edge of the camp. Like shades, Innowen thought morbidly, repressing a chill. As if most of them were ghosts already.

Razkili tapped his arm to draw his attention and nodded toward that same mass. Innowen bit his lip. There was nothing more to be said. He nudged his animal into motion and headed for the front line.

They were among the last to leave the camp, but as they came around the final tent, they met Taelyn and two of his officers. Taelyn wore the plain gold breast plates and helm he had used in the attack on Chohlit. He sat proudly upon his horse, and the wind streamed his helmet's crest behind him. A sword hung at his right hip, and on his right arm he carried a large round shield. In his left hand he gripped an immense lance. "Ride beside me," he instructed them, and they steered their mounts to his right side, while his officers took up position on his left.

They rode through the ranks in that formation, and the soldiers parted for them, all eyes turning to their commander. At the rear of the ranks were the nearly naked hoplites, common footmen, who made up the largest part of Taelyn's force. They wore sandals and small black loin cloths and carried short stabbing swords and shields and longspears. The barest leather caps protected their heads, some sewn with rings of metal and some with rows of boars' tusks.

Next came the ranks of the slingmen. These represented the poorest men who could not yet afford good weapons or armor, but who nevertheless had chosen to join Minarik's army. They wore nothing but sandals and loin cloths and pouches on their hips, which held their throwing stones. Some draped their slings around their necks, and some tied them around their waists. Many wore them tied as headbands across their brows until they were needed. A few of these men would be lucky enough to snatch better weaponry from the fallen once the battle began, and if they survived, they might be allowed to move up into the ranks of the hoplites for the next battle.

The archers held the middle position. Like the slingmen, they wore little armor. Many did, however, don the hoplite's protective leather cap, and a few wore braces on their arms. The bows they carried were of several kinds, both curved and recurved, and their quivers bristled with reed-shafted and wooden arrows. Many also carried secondary weapons in their belts, usually daggers or short swords, sometimes axes or crude, stone-headed clubs.

Eighty mounted men made up the cavalry. These were the officers and wealthier troops who could afford horses and better arms. Metal helms, some of elaborate design, covered their heads and necks. Greaves and braces protected their limbs, and a few, like Taelyn, wore plates of copper, bronze, or gold to guard their chests. Some carried round shields, and some the rectangle. Some wore the short sword at their hips, and others the longer bronze blade that tended to bend easily and nick, but offered the extra reach. All carried the long, slender lance, which was a horseman's primary weapon.

As Taelyn rode among them, they raised their lances in salute, and he acknowledged them with a lifting of his own.

At the head of the army were the chariots, each a light, two-horsed wicker unit built to carry one warrior, who was both driver and fighter. Javelins filled permanently mounted quivers on each side of every vehicle, and every driver wore a sword. In all other respects, the drivers armored themselves like the horsemen, except that their helms were metal caps only, and their throwing arms were left bare.

The two centermost chariots moved forward at Taelyn's approach and withdrew to either end of the line, leaving a space for their commander and his companions. Innowen glanced down and discovered why earlier they had seemed to move so quietly. The wheels had been bound with cloth and strips of leather to muffle any noise made by their passage. Taelyn obviously meant to keep the element of surprise as long as possible.

As Taelyn took his place at the fore of his army, another man rode up and quietly positioned himself behind him. Bound across the shoulders of his mount was a pair of large drums. It would be his job to stay near Taelyn throughout the fighting, no matter where his commander went, no matter how thick the battle, and the thunder of his drums would relay his lord's commands across the field.

Suddenly, another horse raced around the farthest chariot and made straight for them. Abruptly, the rider jerked back hard on his reins, stopping before Taelyn.

"Nearly late for the battle again, eh, boy?" Taelyn said without rancor.

Veydon grinned as he tossed an extra lance to Razkili. "Well, old sir," he said, "even in war, one should make a good entrance."

Innowen eyed the young soldier. His muscled flesh gleamed almost as if oiled, and its deep color made a rich contrast against the highly polished bronze of his unornamented armor and against the dark hide of his mount. Like most soldiers, he disdained a riding pad and rode the animal bare, close up to its shoulders, holding the reins low in one hand. It might have been a throne, the way he sat so proudly.

"Especially in war," Taelyn agreed. Then, more sternly, he instructed, "Now take your proper place, horseman. The cavalry is behind me, not in my path."

Innowen spoke up, looking past Razkili. "If you will, Taelyn, as Razkili has offered his service to you, so has this soldier offered service to him as his spear-mate." He looked at Veydon, and the warrior smiled back at him.

"That's well done," Taelyn answered. "Then he may ride at Razkili's back." He looked again to his young officer and added, "but that's still with the cavalry, and that's still behind me." He waited, then, as Veydon rode sheepishly between Innowen and a chariot and took a position beside the drummer. Innowen overheard Taelyn as he tapped Razkili's knee and whispered with an almost fatherly pride, "You've chosen well, Osiri. He handles a lance better than any of my other men."

Then Taelyn turned to the officer on his left side. "Pass the word as we march," he ordered. "If we make the first ridge before the moonrise, a one hour's rest will be every man's reward. Tell them to march well, and march in silence." To the other officer he instructed, "Choose two horsemen for scouts and send them ahead."

They waited until a pair of riders disappeared in the forward darkness. Innowen took the time to study Razkili at his left side. The Osiri looked so calm and steadfast in his armor. Innowen felt naked beside him, no shield on his arm, no lance in his hand. He felt the eyes of the army on his back, and he imagined he heard their thoughts. They wondered why he carried no weapons. They wondered at his courage. They wondered why it was that he walked by night and needed Razkili to carry him like a doll in the daylight. He could hear them, he was sure he could.

He rolled his gaze to the heavens. The Crown of the Gods stretched across the sky, and the Great Scythe hung low in the north. He shivered suddenly and looked again at Razkili. He wanted to pray, but he'd grown convinced that the gods never listened.

Except for one god whose name he didn't know. There you are again, he thought, and the Witch of Shanalane was suddenly in his mind, unchanged by the years, as beautiful as his memory could make her. You protect him, then, he thought. Protect us all.

But she was just a memory, and memories, by themselves, had no power.

A muffled drumbeat sounded just behind him and swiftly faded. Without looking over, Razkili reached across and squeezed his knee. Like a great beast in the darkness, the army lurched forward, eerily quiet but for the hesitant creaking of the chariots and the soft rhythmic impact of hooves and sandaled feet upon the earth.

It was the stuff of songs, Innowen thought, as he felt the breeze caress his cheek. Silent armies, midnight marches, battles by moonlight. But when a song was done, the singer collected his coin, picked up his drink, tuned his instrument, smiled at his audience, quite safe and quite alive.

He felt the wind on his face again. It urged him to dance. Not yet, he told it, not yet.

The army moved smoothly over flat plainland until it reached the first foothills of the Akrotir Mountains. There, forces broke up into smaller waves which crested each hill and waited for the next wave to start up before descending. They progressed slowly in the darkness, careful to lose no horse or chariot wheel to unseen ruts or holes. No man spoke now, not even in a whisper. From any summit, the night could carry a voice a considerable distance.

The moon floated slowly above the eastern hills. Its weak radiance lit the hilltops and filled the valleys with shadow. Taelyn led the way down into blackness and up again into light. Finally, when they reached a place deep enough and dark enough to shelter all his troops, he called a rest. Waterskins were passed around and abandoned when empty; they wouldn't be carried into battle.

While others dismounted to rest, Taelyn rode quietly to the summit of the next hill. Innowen tapped Razkili's arm, and together they followed. Veydon, too, joined them.

"Another hour's march," Taelyn said in a low voice as they pulled up by his side.

"You've brought us a round-about way, Commander," Veydon whispered. "These hills are taking a toll on the men and horses both."

Razkili joined the discussion. "Is there no road or pass to this city of Parendur?"

"If you were the leader of a siege force," Taelyn answered with the patience of a father addressing a favorite son, "where would you most likely station your patrols and watchmen? Yes, there's a road, but I want to keep the element of surprise."

"So we come at them out of the foothills," Veydon said needlessly.

Innowen listened with half an ear, but his eyes turned toward the looming darkness of the Akrotir Mountains in the south. He felt their presence like a ponderous weight upon him, and they oozed an oppressive mystery into the air that he could almost smell. He inhaled deeply. Somehow, his sight seemed sharper, and he could make out the jagged outline that challenged the sky. All his senses took on a finer edge. The wind sang upon those far peaks.

"You're very quiet," Taelyn said to him.

"It's this place," Innowen answered reverently. "It commands quiet."

They grew silent and listened to the stillness, twisting with a strange conservation of motion on their horses' backs to gaze in all directions. Each pair of eyes, though, inevitably turned toward the Akrotirs and lingered there.

Razkili reached across the space between them, and his hand settled on Innowen's knee. "We'll have to separate soon," he said gently.

Innowen listened to the wind as it danced down from the mountains and flowed over the hills and valleys. He felt it coming like a delicate tide rippling the air before it, and smiled wistfully when it brushed over him. "When we find a high hill that overlooks Parendur," he whispered, "there I'll leave you and watch the battle." He gripped the hand on his knee and held it as he turned to Taelyn. "Give my horse to one of your footmen. I won't need it, and another cavalryman will do more damage than a hoplite."

Taelyn nodded. "My thanks, Innocent." He hesitated, considering his next words. "I know where your heart lies, that you would fight with us. But your friend has given the best advice. None of us questions your courage."

Innowen barked a short laugh, then choked it back. "I think your soldiers have more questions about me than they dare to ask even in private." He waved a hand when Taelyn started to protest. "That's not important now, and if there's anyone on the next hill, I bet they can hear everything we're saying."

Taelyn nodded again and wordlessly started back down toward his troops. Veydon followed, but Innowen clung to Razkili's hand for a long moment and stared toward the mountains. He drank in the awesome silence, inhaled it, filled himself with it until he felt as ponderous and unmovable as the ancient stone itself. Only that way could he keep from voicing his worry for his friend. He should be at Rascal's back, protecting him in the fighting. It was where he knew he belonged. But instead, he would watch from a distance, and Veydon would do his job for him.

He gazed hard and long into the Akrotirs. Then he squeezed Razkili's hand once, let it go, and turned his horse down the slope to rejoin the army.

Veydon intercepted him at the bottom. "I'll watch out for him," he said. There was an odd passion in his words, and his gaze bore piercingly into Innowen. "I swear. I will go down before he does."

Innowen's brow furrowed, and his lips drew into a thin line as he regarded Veydon. "Why?" he said irritably. "Why would you do that?"

Veydon smiled weakly and looked away. "Has it been so long that you've forgotten Shandisti? I know you, Innowen. I remember the harvest festivals of our boyhood." He looked back, and there was a softness in his eyes. "Most of the children were cruel to you because you couldn't walk, and I was one of them." He swallowed and glanced away again. Nearby, Taelyn's officers were rousing the soldiers to their feet. The rest break was over. It was time to resume the march. "Call it atonement that obligates me to look after your friend," Veydon continued in hushed tones. "I know how you must depend on him."

I depend on no one, Innowen started to snap, but he bit it back. It would have been such an obvious lie. He stared at Veydon, trying to remember his face. He couldn't. There had been lots of children in Shandisti, and he had gone to the village only on holidays when Drushen would take him. Some had taunted and tormented him, but he'd never paid much heed. There'd always been too many wonders, too much going on during the festivals, even in such a small community, to hold his attention. He shook his head. Veydon held no place in his memory.

"Just guard his back," he said at last. "You could have nobody better at yours." He looked over his shoulder toward the summit of the hill where Razkili sat alone gazing into the distance. Innowen wondered what thoughts were running through his mind.

"We move," Taelyn said, riding up to him. Innowen and Veydon fell in beside their commander and climbed the hill again. Razkili merged into the line as they overtook him. The army resumed its relentless flow toward Parendur.

The Akrotir Mountains grew ever larger until they dominated the southern sky.

Taelyn held up a hand. His drummer remained silent, but the word quickly passed to halt. Two riders descended the hill before them and made straight for the front line.

Taelyn saluted his scouts. "Report."

"Parendur lies just over that ridge," one of them answered. "We still can't identify the army camped outside its walls, but Veydon's estimate of their number is probably correct. Two thousand men. Most are asleep in their tents now with only a token patrol on the perimeter."

The other scout spoke. "We left our horses on the ridge and bellied down as close as we dared," he said. "They are well armed, but discipline seems lax. We saw gambling and drinking, and a few arguments."

"Mercenaries?" one of Taelyn's officers suggested.

"It's possible," answered the first scout. "We heard a smattering of different languages. Isporan among them, so some, at least, are our own people."

Taelyn spat, then turned to his officers. "Tell the archers to ready their firepots and move them into position. Deploy the other units according to plan." He steered his horse around Razkili and whispered to Innowen. "Choose a place on our left flank where you can see," he said gently. "Razkili can go with you to bring your horse back. With the grace of the gods, we'll clasp hands again when this is over, Innocent."

Innowen took the older man's offered hand. "Razkili would tell you to trust in no gods, just your arm and your weapons. Osiri philosophy. It's good advice."

He pulled away and rode east along an old stream bed that had dried up in the drought. Razkili followed. They picked their way carefully in the darkness until Innowen turned right and started up the side of a high hill. He could still see Taelyn's army huddled in the valley behind him.

At the summit, he dismounted. Even in the darkness, Parendur took his breath away, just as it had the first time he saw it. It filled the next valley and sprawled out onto a narrow plain. Watchfires burned at intervals along the top of the city's defensive wall. The shadows that moved there, he knew, were soldiers at their posts.

The plain was also dotted with fires and the tents of Parendur's attackers. He had a good view into the camp. It was still and quiet. A few men huddled around the fires. A two-man patrol passed far below him, more visible by the shadows they cast than by anything else.

"Archers will set fire to their tents from there," Razkili said, pointing. "The confusion will give the chariots time to pull out of the hills and assemble on the plain."

Innowen held up a hand to interrupt him. "Let me watch it," he said. "That will be the best explanation."

"I just want you to realize it's a good plan," Razkili urged. "It will go well. Taelyn is a skillful strategist."

Innowen shut him up by embracing him. "To hell with strategy," he whispered. "You keep your spear level and your sword close at hand. Now get out of here, and take my horse. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can share a jug of wine in Parendur. The finest wine in the world is made right behind those walls. That's probably why these invaders want in so badly."

"Wine sounds great," Razkili answered. "I'll come back for you when the fighting's done. Gods willing..."

Innowen pressed a hand over Razkili's lips. "Trust no gods, Rascal."

Razkili grinned. "Osiri philosophy from you?"

"Forgive me," he said, stepping away. "My mouth didn't know what it was saying."

"It seldom does, my Innocent." Razkili swung up onto his horse and took the reins of Innowen's mount. "I like that name. It fits you." Before Innowen could respond, he wheeled away and rode down the hill.

Almost at once, a rain of fire streaked the night sky, and the darkness hissed, alive with the sounds of arrows streaming flame. Enemy tents began to burn, brightening the land with a deadly light. Still the arrows flew, and the wind conspired with Taelyn as it carried sparks and ash to the tents that arrows couldn't reach.

Men only half awake began to stumble into the open. Shouting and confusion rose in the camp, but noise alone could not hold back the deadly shafts or the hail of stones that plummeted upon them when Taelyn's slingmen joined the fray. Scores fell dead in their tracks with screams frozen on their lips and faces crushed.

Innowen watched in dreadful fascination as the enemy scurried like crazed ants whose hill had been trampled upon. Some ran wailing, directionless. Some dashed back into burning tents to snatch up weapons. A single officer raced back and forth bellowing orders that went unheeded, while flames reflected in the sweat of his bare back and in his wide eyes.

The storm of arrows and stones ceased. Aided by the light of the burning tents, he gazed expectantly toward the narrow plain.

The chariots hit with tidal force. The horses themselves were as deadly as the drivers' javelins. Men bounced helplessly off the animals' powerful shoulders, hooves pounded them into the earth, wheels crushed limbs and bones.

Behind the chariots came the cavalry. Again and again, long lances ripped streams of scarlet from the backs and bellies of Parendur's invaders. The fires made dazzling patterns on the riders' bronze helmets and on the tips of their weapons. Innowen looked for Razkili and found him easily. The pure burnished metal of his shield caught and magnified the fireglow around him. No other carried such a shield. It had to be Razkili.

Taelyn's hoplites swept out of the hills with crazed battlecries, running with their spears before them. Their fierce charge carried them deep into the heart of the camp. The enemy fell like ripe wheat before them as they lunged and slashed with ruthless efficiency.

The din of battle swelled like a terrible song over the field, and over that, a surging roar as fire raged through the encampment. The mountain winds rushed over the plain, whipping the flames to a frenzy. Streamers of burning fabric swirled into the air. Hot clouds of ash and smoke whirled into the night.

Innowen heard the wind, and suddenly, it scorched him like a hot breath as it flashed up the hill, bringing a maelstrom of glowing ash that gurgled and churned around him. He flung up his arms, expecting pain, yet not a spark touched him. The wind whistled in his ears, changing pitch as the gusts rose and fell. A searing snow whirled about him in elusive choreography.

It was madness. Men were dying down below. Razkili and Taelyn were risking their lives. Yet he reached up and drew a graceful arc with his arm. The wind sang, and the ash danced, and Innowen surrendered to it. He flung back his head. A long sigh issued from his lips. A thousand lives below him did a death-dance that sent a rhythm through the earth, and it flowed into him. He felt the pulse and the thrust of it. He moved, or it moved him.

The screams and shouts became a chorus, a minute part of the music of the world. The clash and clang of spears and swords made a timpani. He spun on his toes, his hands weaving intricate patterns as he turned. Wind-blown, tiny points of firelight, like living creatures, turned with him. They leaped, and he leaped into their midst, extending his arms like wings.

Suddenly, the rhythm changed. He gazed down at the battle, though his feet never stopped, his arms never stilled. The invaders had found their weapons, and they fought back as fear turned to fury. Most of Taelyn's chariots were broken hulks. Half his cavalry fought on foot now. Razkili was nowhere to be seen. A new cry went up at the edge of the plain as archers and slingmen rushed to join the fight, seizing up the spears and swords and shields of the fallen to use as their own. Again, he scoured the carnage, seeking the gleam of Razkili's polished shield. Another cry went up. Atop Parendur's wall, a growing crowd gathered. Innowen shot a glance at the city's main gate. It remained closed. But Taelyn had counted on reinforcements from Kytin's First Army. Where were they?

The wind blew, spinning him around. He arched to the side and kicked high, rolled through his spine, and drew himself spear-straight.

Then he stopped, suddenly deaf to the wind and its impossible music.

A huge knight charged through the combat on a black horse. Firelight rippled along the blade of a great bronze sword and on the metal studs of his leather armor. The dark crest of his helm streamed behind him as he rallied the unknown invaders and urged them back toward the open plain.

Innowen's breath quickened, and he clapped a hand to his mouth. His thoughts churned for an instant, then down the hill he raced, along the side of the next, and out toward the battle. At the border of the fighting, he snatched up a sword. The edge was badly notched, the blade bent. He pressed it over his knee and did his best to straighten it. With his weapon, he rushed into the fray.

The invaders, though, were in full retreat, and the dark warrior was nowhere to be seen.

"Vashni!" Innowen screamed as he ran searching among the burning tents. He had not imagined it, he told himself. It was the Witch's servant he had seen. It was Vashni!

He cast away the sword when he found a spear at his feet. It was a better weapon. The shaft was solid in his grip. The point glistened wetly.

He ran, dodging the smoldering remains of tents and bodies that blocked his path. Someone lunged out of the shadows. He blocked a spear thrust and brought the blunt end of his own spear up and around. The attacker crumpled with a groan. Innowen didn't take time to finish him. It was Vashni he wanted.

Suddenly, a horse blocked his way. He brought his point up, prepared to thrust, but a hand swept out, caught the shaft, and held it with an unyielding strength. One of Taelyn's officers peered down at him, frowning. "Easy, son," he said, removing his helmet. "This fight's all but over."

Innowen lowered his spear, and all the energy seemed to ebb from him. "A warrior in black armor," he muttered. "Huge sword. One of their leaders. You saw him?"

The officer shrugged. "You ask about one man out of two thousand. If he wasn't on the business end of my lance, I didn't see him." He leaned down and extended a hand. "Come up," he said. "I'll take you to the commander."

Innowen let his spear fall to the ground and climbed up behind the soldier. He braced his hands on the horse's rump for balance as they moved off across the field. The destruction spread everywhere around them. Here and there, tent poles still burned, though most of the fabric had been consumed. The smell of smoke and blood made a terrible perfume. The moans of the wounded and dying floated eerily as the clamor of battle faded.

They found Taelyn with a handful of his warriors. At first, Innowen thought he'd been wounded, but he soon realized the blood that covered the older man was not his own. The drummer, though he still rode behind his commander, bled heavily from a cut in his side. His rigid features betrayed his pain.

Taelyn glared with an anger Innowen had never seen in him. "He didn't join us!" he raged. "That bastard never opened the gates."

"Kyrin?" Innowen guessed.

"He let us die out here, so long as he was safe behind his damned walls!"

"But you won," Innowen reminded him, "without Kyrin."

This time the glare was directed at him. "Tell that to the dead men who followed me into this!"

Taelyn led them through the wreckage toward a cluster of hoplites. Little by little, all that remained of his army began to gather. Men drifted out of the smoke and darkness like bloody ghosts, taking substance as they drew closer. Few spoke. Some looked around for comrades and clapped them silently around the shoulders, too weary or too numb to utter greetings.

It moved Innowen deeply, and shame filled him. He had danced while Isporans lost their lives. How could he have done that? What kind of man was he?

A hand touched his thigh, and he looked down at a weary-looking soldier. "Veydon?" he said, as recognition took hold. He sprang off the horse and caught the young officer as he started to collapse. His arm slipped around Veydon's back, and he felt a slick wetness. "Oh gods," he muttered, and Veydon's breath hissed as Innowen lowered him down.

"Just let me rest," Veydon whispered. Others gathered close to see to him. "It isn't bad, but it hurts like the hells."

"He's taken a thrust under the shoulder blade," someone said, turning him on his side, examining his back.

Veydon gripped Innowen's hand. "What are you doing here?" His words came through clenched teeth. "Razkili's gone into the hills to get you."

"He left you like this?" Innowen said in disbelief.

"He didn't know," Veydon reassured him. "I didn't tell him. It didn't seem so bad at first."

"We've got to get him inside the city," said another officer as he knelt down by them.

Taelyn scowled angrily. "We've got to get a lot of men inside. And by damn we will if I have to pull those gates down myself!"

Several men picked Veydon up out of the dirt, but he refused to release Innowen's hand. "We won," he said with a weak half-grin. "It was the wind. It carried the archers' fire through the camp faster than we could have hoped. It was as if the wind was on our side."

The wind. It still blew down from the Akrotirs. Innowen felt it on his face when he looked up. But it held no music for him now. He gazed away into the darkness, walking beside Veydon as his friends carried him. He didn't know where, but he went just the same, pulled along by the hand that held his.

It was a black hell he walked through, a place of lamentation and death, of smoke and fire and gloom. What a fitting place to find Vashni, a man he had first thought a demon. And if Vashni was here, surely the Witch of Shanalane was close by.

He wiped a hand over his lips, then licked them. The salt taste of blood blossomed in his mouth.