The Princess and the Bear - Mette Ivie Harrison [71]
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.