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Ox. The big man bore the Kestrel banner in one hand and a sword in the other.
Ox has no shield, Firekeeper thought anxiously. No shield but the speed and
skill with which he wields his sword. Yet I could swear that he is laughing
and urging the others on.
Her gaze turned then to the other flank, where a woman she had met only in
passing led the left flank of the cavalry charge. This was the Duchess Merlin,
a woman young for her position barely twenty-four.
Her grandfather and father had both died in their forties.
There had been those who had argued that House Trueheart would do better with
an older, steadier person at its head to help young Grace learn her way about
her responsibilities among those had been
Zorana Archer, who had nominated her husband, Aksel Trueheart, the duchess s
uncle. Grace, however, had been twenty-two when her father died and so was
legally eligible to take her place among the heads of the Great Houses.
Many had expressed surprise when Duchess Merlin had arrived personally leading
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the reinforcements raised from those who usually patrolled her lands. Derian
had reported that the king had said that the
young duchess needed to prove herself and that she fully understood the risk
she was taking. On her arrival Duchess Merlin had presented the king with a
document not unlike the king s own will, naming a regent for her year-old son
should she die on the field.
And how many others, Firekeeper mused, watching the slender duchess on her
sturdy dapple grey charge into the opposing line of mounted soldiers, are out
there fighting not because they believe in preserving Bright Bay s territory
from Stonehold, but because they have something to prove? Surely
Sapphire Shield fights to earn glory rather than for Bright Bay. And perhaps
Jet hopes that valor in battle may remove the ignominy of his behavior on the
night of the brothels.
When Sapphire Shield had requested to join Earl Kestrel s company, the earl
had welcomed her, not so much, Firekeeper knew, for her skill though Sapphire
rode as well as many of the cavalry troops but because the soldiers loved her
for appearing like a figure out of legend: for the blue steed she rode, for
her dyed and enameled armor.
Sapphire s renunciation of the stone that had glowed so long on her brow had
done nothing to lessen the tales growing up around her. Though two days had
passed, the skin where the headband had rested for so long remained as white
as new-fallen snow. Already some whispered that Sapphire had battled evil
sorcery and won.
And yet, even those who shiver deliciously at the tales don t believe them,
not deep inside. How strange.
The infantry waded into the gaps left by the clash of cavalry. Here was where
Rolfston Redbriar fought and here was where he died, slain by a practiced
sword slash from a grim-faced woman with a dogwood blossom painted above the
triple chevronels on her shield. Neither Sapphire nor Jet, each elsewhere on
the field, knew that they were now fatherless.
Melina was right when she told Rolfston Redbriar not to be a fool and join the
battle, but he would have nothing of her wisdom not when Ivon Archer fights
both as an archer and then on foot. I wonder if somehow Lady Melina will turn
even this tragedy to enhance her reputation.
In the infantry was where many other people Firekeeper had met were fighting:
men and women with whom she had tossed dice or who had proven their courage by
stroking Blind Seer s head. It bothered her that she could not tell one from
another even with the long glass. Helmets and armor, combined with shields
held to protect vital spots, turned each figure into a blood- and dirt-smeared
variation on the rest.
Firekeeper found herself watching the cavalry instead, for horses were
distinct where humans were not.
She watched, fingernails digging trenches in her palms, as Earl Kestrel s
sorrel was belly-wounded and tumbled screaming to the ground. Had Ox not been
near to lift the body from his earl, Norvin Norwood, too, would have died
there. As it was, Earl Kestrel struggled to his feet and eschewed his own
safety to cut his horse s throat before turning to face those who saw an
unseated cavalry officer as fair game.
Prince Newell, mounted on a rust-colored steed splashed with white on legs and
face, rescued Earl
Kestrel by dashing close enough to shield-bash the soldier who was raising his
sword to strike, though this left Newell himself vulnerable.
Ox tended to the soldier who would have stabbed Newell, receiving in return an
ugly slash that laid open one side of his jaw. Ignoring the red rain that came
forth, he beat his way back to the little earl s side, finally shoving him
into the saddle of his own sturdy chestnut. Then, scooping up the banner pole,
Ox raised the Kestrel crest so that the earl s troop would take heart from the
knowledge that their commander was safe.
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Once unremarkable, now the little scrap of land was watered with blood, mostly
in trickles and dribbles but sometimes in terrible gouts where soldiers or
steeds had been mortally wounded. The hot, coppery stink came even to where
Firekeeper sat and soon she thought she could bear no more. Yet she remained
anchored to her perch, held by a fierce desire not to cheapen the sacrifice of
those who were fighting by hiding like a rabbit.
So she was there to see when Duke Allister s aide, a man she vaguely recalled
as Lord Tench, was slain by an arrow meant for the duke.
Duke Allister s group was mostly afoot now perhaps to make the duke less
visible. Had Allister
Seagleam not turned to answer some request from a bloodied retainer, had Tench
not moved to listen to what was being said, the arrow might have landed
unnoticed in dirt already churned by many feet, already littered with
countless arrows from earlier attacks. But the arrow hit Tench squarely in the
back, a mortal wound that left the others in his vicinity scattering for
cover. And Firekeeper was down from her sheltering oak before Tench hit the
ground.
 That arrow could only have come from near here, she cried to Blind Seer.
 That was no chance shot!
Let us find the archer. I have no love for those who kill brave soldiers from
a distance and from cover.
Blind Seer gaped his fanged jaws in a vicious smile.
 I am with you, Little Two-legs, but the smells of blood and sweat and fear
thicken the air. I cannot find this  archer by scent alone. Use your knowledge
of the archer s craft and find him for us.
And Firekeeper nodded, calling to mind every trace and trick for use of the
bow that Race Forester had taught her. Her teacher s skill had been honed by
the need to live by his hunting and her enthusiasm for his lessons had been
avid; otherwise she might not have found the place from which the assassin s
arrow had been shot. But having all her life at least her life as she
remembered it needed to survive by dint of quickness and cleverness,
Firekeeper remembered precisely the path of that arrow as it had streaked
through the fair sky.
 It is not so unlike finding the lark s nest by recalling how she darts into
the sky from cover, she said to
Blind Seer, mentally tracing the arrow s path.  We will find the archer there
in that clump of maples
ahead a bit, closer to the battlefield. Doubtless he has hidden in the tree
boughs as I did here.
 The ground between is opener than I like,
the wolf replied, already lowering himself to slink close to the earth as the
pack would when stalking a herd of elk.
 I mislike how your tall two-legged shape will stand out.
The feral woman stroked his thick ruff. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]