Days of Air and Darkness - Katharine Kerr [134]
Gasping for breath, Tren kept jogging south, yelling at the men he passed, rounding up a few here, a few there, until in a grassy valley, a couple of miles from the broken ambuscade, he managed to pull together about a hundred men of the First. They milled round him, formed up in a ragged square, spears at the ready and outward, when he ordered them. From some distance away, they could hear battle sounds, faint and dying away as they listened.
“They won’t be following,” Tren called out, “but stay on guard anyway.”
Because they knew nothing else to do, they obeyed. Still panting for breath, Tren walked round the formation and considered their condition. Half were unarmed, many were wounded, no one had a scrap of food or a blanket with him, but they were alive. Alive and free. Free. For one brief moment, Tren could feel freedom like a taste in his mouth, as sweet as mead and as heady. He could take this troop and march north, leave the Horsekin behind and fortify his brother’s dun—his dun, now—with this new warband, where they’d never dig him out again. He felt himself grinning, then remembered Ddary and his oath-sworn riders. The grin faded of its own will just as the raven called from overhead.
When the priestess in her sacred raven form swooped down, cawing and circling, the men cheered her. She’d appeared like an omen, just as he thought to break free, and in that precise appearance Tren saw his Wyrd, trapping him. He saw no reason to fight or argue.
“Well and good, men,” he called out. “The priestess will lead us home again. Follow me.”
With a wave of his sword, he led them across the valley, where a misty curtain hung over the magical road that would take them back to their masters. As they walked it, Tren was thinking up a good lie to save the men behind him from the fate the Horsekin dealt out to failures. They say that elven blood makes a man eloquent; be that as it may, his talk of powerful dweomer and thousands of warriors materializing from nowhere so moved Hir-li that his men were allowed to live.
“Well, Envoy, you’re right enough,” Brel said dryly. “You’re no general.”
“My apologies.” Garin moaned. “I didn’t realize how fast we’d come. I didn’t realize that we were there ahead of you.”
“You’re cursed lucky we weren’t held up by somewhat. They could have rallied against your force alone. To just charge like that, without finding out if we’d got into the pass yet—”
“I know, I know. Ah, ye gods! Ah, ye gods!”
Brel said nothing more, merely frowned into the camp-fire. In the gathering dark, they were sitting at a council fire of sorts, Brel, Garin, and Rhodry, while the dragon lazed nearby. She’d eaten all three of the dead horses and lay as swollen and drowsy as a snake who’s swallowed a field mouse whole.
“Ah, well,” Rhodry said at last. “It worked out in the event, Garro. They broke, they ran, we won.”
“True, but—”
“No buts,” Brel broke in. “In war, never allow yourself to worry about what might have been, good or bad. Our dragonmaster’s right. We won, we only lost a few men, we’ve got prisoners and booty.”
“My thanks,” Garin said, “for forgiving my stupidity, I mean.”
“Oh, I haven’t done that. There’s just no time to worry about it now.”
Garin winced and concentrated on watching the fire.
“So, Dragonmaster,” Brel went on, “the raven didn’t even give you a fight of it?”
“She didn’t,” Rhodry said. “I don’t mind admitting that I was afraid of what dweomer she might work, but when she saw us riding for her, she fled. We just chased her round in circles, mostly, until it was