“My Lord Bertome,” the fellow panted, bowing hastily. “There are two thousand Taraboners hard on my heels. And women with them! With lightning on their dresses!”
“Hard on his heels,” Weiramon murmured disparagingly. “We’ll see what my man has to say when he gets back. I certainly don’t see any —!”
Sudden whoops in the near distance ahead cut him off, and the thunder of hooves, and then quickly galloping lancers appeared, a flowing tide spreading through the trees. Straight toward Bertome and the others.
Weiramon laughed. “Kill whoever you wish, wherever you wish, Gedwyn,” he said, drawing sword with a flourish. “I use the methods I use, and that’s that!” Racing back toward his armsmen, he waved the blade over his head shouting, “Saniago! Saniago and glory!” It was no surprise he did not add a shout for his country to those for his House and his greatest love.
Spurring in the same direction, Bertome raised his own voice. “Saighan and Cairhien!” No need for sword waving yet. “Saighan and Cairhien!” What had the man been after?
Thunder rumbled, and Bertome looked to the sky, perplexed. There were few more clouds than earlier. No; Doile — Dalyn? — had mentioned those women. And then he forgot all about whatever the fool Tairen wanted as steelveiled Taraboners poured over the wooded hills toward him, the earth blooming fire and the sky raining lightning ahead of them.
“Saighan and Cairhien!” he shouted.
The wind rose.
Horsemen clashed amid thick trees and heavy underbrush, where shadows hung heavily. The light seemed to be failing, the clouds thickening overhead, but it was hard to say with the dense forest canopy for a roof. Booming roars halfdrowned the ring of steel on steel, the shouts of men, the screams of horses. Sometimes the ground shook. Sometimes the enemy raised shouts.
“Den Lushenos! Den Lushenos and the Bees!”
“Annallin! Rally to Annallin!”
“Haellin! Haellin! For the High Lord Sunamon!”
The last was the only cry Varek understood in the least, though he suspected any of the locals who named themselves High Lords or Ladies might not be offered the chance to swear the Oath.
He jerked his sword free from where he had jammed it into his opponent’s armpit, just above the breastplate, and let the pale little man topple. A dangerous fighter, until he made the mistake of raising his blade too high. The man’s bay crashed off through the undergrowth, and Varek spared a moment for regret. The animal looked better than the whitefooted dun he was forced to ride. A moment only, and then he was peering through the closeset trees, where it seemed vines dangled from half the branches and bunches of some gray, feathery plant from nearly all.
Sounds of battle rose from every direction, but at first he could see nothing that moved. Then a dozen Altaran lancers appeared at fifty paces, walking their horses and peering about carefully, though the way they talked loudly among themselves more than justified the red slashes crisscrossing their breastplates. Varek gathered his reins, meaning to take them in. An escort, even this undisciplined rabble, might be the difference between the urgent message he carried reaching BannerGeneral Chianmai and not.
Black streaks flashed from among the trees, emptying Altaran saddles. Their horses dashed in every direction as the riders fell, and then there were only a dozen corpses sprawled on the damp carpet of dead leaves, at least one crossbow bolt jutting from every man. Nothing moved. Varek shivered in spite of himself. Those foot in blue coats had seemed easy at first, with no pikes to stand behind, but they never came into the open, hiding behind trees, in dips in the ground. They were not the worst. He had been sure after the frantic retreat to the ships at Falme that he had seen the worse he ever could see, the Ever Victorious Army in a rout. Not half an hour gone, though, he had seen a hundred Taraboners face one lone man in a black coat. A hundred lancers against one, and the Taraboners had been ripped to shreds. Literally ripped to shreds, men and horses simply exploding as fast he could count; the slaughter had continued after the Taraboners turned to flee, went on so long as one of them remained in sight. Perhaps it was really no worse than having the ground erupt beneath your feet, but at least damane usually left enough of you to be buried.
He had been told by the last man he managed to speak to in these woods, a grizzled veteran from home leading a hundred Amadician pikes, that Chianmai was in this direction. Ahead, he spotted riderless horses tied to trees, and men afoot. Maybe they could give him further direction. And he would give them the lash of his tongue for standing about while a battle raged.
When he rode in among them, he forgot tonguelashings. He had found what he was looking for, but not at all what he wanted to find. A dozen badly burned corpses lay in a row. One, his honeybrown face untouched, was recognizably Chianmai. The men on their feet were all Taraboners, Amadicians, Altarans. Some of them were injured, too. The only Seanchan was a tightfaced sul’dam soothing a weeping damane.
“What happened here?” Varek demanded. He did not think it was like these Asha’man to leave survivors. Maybe the sul’dam had fought him off.
“Madness, my lord.” A hulking Taraboner shrugged away the man who was spreading ointment down his seared left arm. The sleeve appeared to have been burned away clear to the fellow’s breastplate, yet despite his burns, he did not grimace. His veil of steel mail hung by a corner from his redplumed conical helmet, baring a hard face with thick gray mustaches that nearly hid his mouth, and his eyes were insultingly direct. “A group of Illianers, they fell on us without warning. At first, all went well. They had none of the blackcoats with them. Lord Chianmai, he led us bravely, and the... the woman... channeled lightnings. Then, just as the Illianers broke, the lightnings, they fell among us, too.” He cut off with a significant look at the sul’dam.
She was on her feet in an instant, shaking her free fist and striding as far toward the Taraboner as the leash attached to her other wrist would allow. Her damane lay in a weeping heap. “I will not hear this dog’s words against my Zakai! She is a good damane! A good damane!”
Varek made soothing gestures to the woman. He had seen sul’dam make their charges howl for misdeeds, and a few who crippled the recalcitrant, but most would bristle even at one of the Blood who cast aspersions on a favorite. This Taraboner was not of the Blood, and by the look of the quivering sul’dam, she was ready to do murder. Had the man voiced his ridiculous, unspoken charge, Varek thought she might ha
