The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [126]
At each point and in the center Salamander drew and placed the sigils of the Elements. He called upon the Light once more, then gathered his will. As the light flowed into his etheric form, he felt it throb with power. He rose to a position right behind the pentagram and laid etheric hands, shaped like flames, upon it. With a last call to the Light, he thrust it forward straight onto the image of Alshandra.
Begone! I banish you in the name of the Light! He seemed to hear his own voice echoing through the etheric like a tidal wave of sound. The image froze, then shattered, bursting into a thousand slivers like a glass bowl dropped from high onto a stone floor. He heard the priestess’ answering scream of pure terror, looked down to see her swaying in the saddle, lowering her arms as she screamed again and again.
She nearly fell, but clutched at the mule’s mane just in time to right herself. The child leading the mule nearly tumbled off as the pony reared in terror. The army paused in the road, their auras shrinking, turning greenish-gray, billowing again blood-red. The shards of the image were scattering, melting, falling in the etheric like transparent rain.
Another sound drifted up to Salamander: the shouts and war cries of the waiting Deverry and Westfolk men, the pounding of hooves on the road as the Horsekin charged. Salamander realized that he was utterly drained. He turned and followed the silver cord back to his body waiting on the walls of the temple compound. He hovered over the slumped form, then sank down, heard a rushy click, and felt sudden pain. He was back, aching in every muscle, panting as if he’d run a long, long way.
"I’d hardly call a bruise a wound, Your Highness!” Gerran said.
"I would when it’s that serious a bruise,” Prince Daralanteriel said. “Clae tells me it bled a fair amount.”
Gerran scowled at the page, who was studying the ground at his feet. “The skin just split or suchlike,” Gerran said. “It’s not like a proper cut.”
“Well, Ridvar brought a chirurgeon with him. After this scrap you’re going to have him look at it.” Dar leaned over his horse’s neck to speak to the lad. “Clae, my thanks. You’ve done your master a service today. Now get back into the temple compound where you’ll be safe.”
Clae bowed and ran back uphill to disappear into the gates.
“No taking it out on the lad later,” Dar said.
“I’d not stoop to such a thing, Your Highness,” Gerran said, “but truly, I’m—”
“Truly, you’re staying back here with me as part of my escort. Here comes Calonderiel.”
Faced with a direct order, Gerran could do nothing but obey. They were both mounted, waiting to ride down closer to the battlefield. On a golden gelding, his hunting bow slung across his back, Calonderiel trotted up to join them. He held his reins in one hand and, in the other, a silver horn.
“The archers are in position,” Cal said. “Here, Gerran, your silver dagger told me you’d been wounded and shouldn’t fight.”
“Not wounded,” Gerran snapped. “Merely bruised.”
“But not fit to lift a shield,” Dar said firmly. “He’s staying with me.”
“Good,” Cal said. “Here, if the Horsekin break through our lines, you’ll both be fighting anyway.”
With a wave of the silver horn, Calonderiel turned his horse and trotted back downhill to rejoin his men.
The two princes and the gwerbret had disposed their men, all mounted, across the road and the field beside it in a typical Deverry formation. Massed at the center of a crescent-shaped line were the best swordsmen from every warband, armed with javelins as well as their blades. The rest of the riders spread out to either side. At both of the splayed ends of the crescent rode mounted archers. Up on the flanks of the hill a small squad of