RICHON COULD HEAR the sounds of the battle at the border of Elolira and Nolira as soon as he stepped out of the ancient forest and the hound changed into human form at his side. It had been more than two weeks since he had passed back through the gap into his own time, and he had been preparing for this all that time. Even so, it seemed to take him by surprise.
The clanging of swords, the cries of death, the rearing of horses as they trampled foot soldiers. And the call of generals who were far back from the actual fighting. It was familiar and yet Richon had never been so afraid. He had never cared so much about the outcome.
“You should stay back,” he said to Chala. “Here, where it is safe.” He nodded to the edge of the forest.
“Safe?” said Chala. “When I have faced the unmagic time and time again already?”
“But this is different,” said Richon. “You will not be fighting with magic here.”
“No, I will not. Give me a sword,” said Chala, nodding to the sack he carried. “I will fight with that.”
“You?” said Richon.
She stared him down. “Do you forget that I was a princess once, and that the princess had a father who was a warrior first and foremost?”
“But surely he did not train you,” said Richon.
“No,” said Chala. “He did not. But that does not mean I did not train. It was in secret, but it was one of the few things that I liked about having a human body even then. A hound has no way to manipulate a weapon—and no need to do it, either.
“But I liked the strength that I felt when I swung a sword. It was the one way that I could be in a hunt without having to make an excuse to leave for the forest.”
Richon was tempted to give her a sword just to satisfy his desire to see her holding it, fire in her eyes, her breath coming swift and deep in her chest. A human woman with a hound’s heart.
“Did King Helm ever allow you to battle on the field—with men?” asked Richon.
“No,” admitted Chala.
Richon nodded. “Because a woman would not be allowed in any army.”
“Why not?” asked Chala. “If she is good enough, would they not welcome another warrior on their side? It would be foolish not to.”
Richon thought of all the reasons that he might give for this. The rules he had learned from boyhood. That a woman, no matter how strong, is not as strong as a man. That the male warriors would be distracted at the sight of a woman. That a woman in an army would cause the men to compete among themselves for her attention. That a woman simply did not belong on the battlefield—that her place was inside the walls of a palace, wearing fine clothes and drinking good wine while the men outside decided what flag she would swear allegiance to.
“Think of the last time you left me behind,” said Chala. “And if you would do that again.”
Richon burned at the memory. Chala had let him wound her very badly, and then had done what she wished to do anyway.
If he tried to do the same here, he did not doubt it would have the same outcome.
“If you do not wish me to be a woman in battle gear, I will be a hound. A bitch hound who hunts at the side of her mate,” said Chala bluntly.
“You are not a bitch hound,” said Richon. And he thought of her standing in his throne room. It was a revelation to him. Hound or human, she was the only queen he could imagine at his side.
Why had it taken him until now to realize that he loved her? That he had always loved her?
He had only been afraid of that love, and how deeply he felt it. As afraid as he had been of his own magic. He had thought of how it would make him vulnerable, because he had felt the pain of loss before and knew how vulnerable he had been.
But love also made him strong. It made him strong enough to dare to take chances for himself, and for her.
“Come, then,” he said at last. “However you wish to be.”
“For this battle, then, a hound.”
Then she bounded ahead of him, toward the clash of armies. He thought of the boy king he had been, and knew suddenly that even if he had known about his magic, even if he had been less selfish, he could not have faced this threat.
The wild man had had to let him learn, beyond what humans could learn in the few short years of life they had to them, in order to bring him here to counter this. He still did not know what he would do, but he knew now that he was capable. Two hundred years of life had brought him at last to the battle that his kingdom needed him to fight.
Coming around the hill, Richon recognized a voice calling out behind the soldiers, cursing them for their weakness, taunting them with insults to their wives and children.
It was the royal steward. Richon would have known that high-pitched scream anywhere.
Richon motioned for the hound to wait. He set the swords down, then went back to find a vantage point from which he could see the fighting well, and make a plan.
How many were in the invading army? Richon wished that he knew tactics better, but that had never been part of his training. His father had believed that diplomacy was the way to fight battles. And perhaps it usually was.
Not in this case, however.
Once again, Richon could see how his life as a bear had prepared him for this moment. It was not the same, of course, in tactics or strategy. But the mind-set was useful, the fierceness and the need for survival.
Richon made his way to the rocky outcropping above the battle. He crawled the last few feet toward the edge to keep his cover.
Then he stopped short and gasped.
This was no battle.
This was a slaughter.
Perhaps his men on the battlefield could not see it, but Richon could. They were hemmed in on all sides. There was no hope for victory. His men had little on them but dirty uniforms, some even in bare feet, but they fought against men in armor and boots.
Richon could see the royal steward watching it all, not calling retreat. The royal steward, who had insisted on the men having swords, but did not seem to care about any of the other rudiments of a fair battle between two armies.
Perhaps he had not had time to find such things. But if that were the case, then his army should at least be falling back to better ground, to a better chance to fight again. But the royal steward was letting them die. Was he as incompetent as Richon was at battle? Or was there more going on here?
Richon watched more men die with each second, knowing that his hesitation had killed them. And yet his ignorance could kill even more.
He had to keep calm.
The hound was very quiet at his side. He did not doubt that she understood as much about this battle as he did, if not more.
He looked out over the field to the enemy troops. There were perhaps three thousand of them. Not an overwhelming number, though Richon could see only a thousand of his own men still standing. There were half that many dead on the field. And who knew how many days this battle had gone on?
Then Richon looked over at the horses standing behind the enemy lines. There was a very large man shifting frequently on one of those horses, standing back as the royal steward was standing back and with the same expression of watchful excitement on his face.
The lord chamberlain, the other man who had claimed to be his friend and adviser after his parents’ death. Richon was sure it was him.
So, he sat on one side, and the royal steward on the other.
Were they truly on opposite sides or were they working together to make Elolira fall?
It did not matter.
One way or the other, his people were being sacrificed.
Richon could not allow it to continue.