The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [87]
Wait? Branoic shifted in the saddle and glanced at Owaen, who looked just as surprised as he was. Caradoc, however, was grinning—a good sign that the prince had some clever dodge in mind. When the messengers trotted off, Branoic hooked his shield over the saddle peak to follow orders about that waiting. When Owaen did the same, Branoic caught a glimpse of his four-fingered hand. The scar from the amputation had broken open, and blood oozed; Owaen seemed not to notice.
The sun climbed and grew hot. Flies gathered. All up and down the prince’s line, men and horses both flicked them away and moved uneasily in place. The men muttered as well, turning in their saddles to ask questions of other men who knew no more than they did. Some of the noble-born began grumbling a little louder. The prince and the captain ignored them all and sat easy in their saddles. Every now and then Caradoc would glance at the sky.
Up on their ridge Burcan’s army began to turn restless. Branoic could see movement among the riders, as impatient horses danced and men leaned forward to pat their necks and calm them. The shield-wall stood immobile; this wait in the hot sun must have been worse for them, Branoic realized, and he wondered if perhaps the prince was hoping to wear them down before he charged.
“What?” Owaen suddenly hissed under his breath. “What by all the hells?”
Branoic looked up and saw a cloud forming over the regent’s army, a small, rather ordinary cloud like a puff of fog from the harbor down in Cerrmor, but the sea lay over a hundred miles away. The white cloud drifted for a moment, then began enlarging and spreading out in long tendrils as it grew. Other clouds appeared near it so suddenly that it seemed some invisible hand had thrown them there. They too enlarged themselves, joining and melding until at last storm clouds loomed high and grey in the sky, swirling over the regent’s army and stretching out north behind their position toward Dun Deverry.
At the southern edge of this storm the prince and his men still waited in bright sun even though a shadow lay dark across their enemies. All at once lightning cracked; thunder boomed from a clear sky. With a slap of wind, rain poured down upon the crest of the rise, a perfectly normal rain, it seemed, except of course the edge of the storm fell, sharp and clean, about halfway down the slope. Nevyn! Branoic thought. He’s the one behind this! The prince’s men began cheering and laughing, as if they’d had the same thought themselves. Prince Maryn grabbed his silver horn and blew the alert. As the signal spread down the line, the laughter stopped. Men grabbed shields and settled them, then drew their javelins from the sheaths under their right legs.
Up on the rise the regent’s army was beginning to break. Horses were rearing and milling about; the shield-wall was disintegrating. They were hardened men, used to marching and fighting in the rain, but this display of dweomer was another matter entirely. Over the past few years they’d heard a flood of rumors and omens about the coming of the one true king. For all they knew, some god or other had brought about this unnatural storm and was cursing them for resisting Maryn’s advance. Lightning cracked again, and again the thunder boomed. Branoic could hear the sound of horns drifting down from the ridge—desperate horns, trying to rally men who were on the point of desertion.
Maryn drew his sword and held it high while he stared uphill at the enemy line. The prince was grinning like a berserker with his entire concentration bent on judging the moment. Up on the ridge the regent’s left flank suddenly crumbled. Men were turning their horses; the noise of horns and shouts doubled. All at once the spearmen began to scatter, peeling out of position and running. Some shamelessly threw their shields; others held them over their heads to ward off the evil magicks in the sky.
“Now!” Maryn screamed. “Now!”
Just as the front line leapt forward and charged, the rain stopped. Under the shadow of clouds they