CHAPTER 34
The Commander
General Riesling waited patiently beside the wagons of the “wine merchant.” He eyed the burgeoning camp dubiously. Biggest wine merchant I ever saw. Not a lot of wine, though. I wonder why they even bother with the pretense anymore . . .
Brother Dracen was less subdued, tapping his foot and scowling in the direction he expected her to appear. Riesling had received a letter from him Monren seeking his help, so he had come at once, arriving at the caravan with the dawn. The letter told him on the road between Matriem and Vinyam he would come across Lord Dracen posing as a wine merchant. Even if the merchant disguise had not been wearing thin, Riesling remembered the look of the sour Dracen from the Rebellions. It would have been little trouble to find them.
So here he was, and now he was about to meet some great caster, a girl named Elaina Aridal Tristarine of Amanheld. Why are the Drethlords working with a Guardian? Better yet, why is a Guardian working with the Drethlords? And what, truth keep them, do they need me for?
No one had come right out and said it. Of course, there were not too many reasons a Drethlord sought out the services of a well-known general.
Riesling knew he had a reputation as one of the finest commanders alive. It wasn't the result of any greater plan of his, just a lifetime of unflinching work, the skill that grew up over time, and a bit of luck. Every commander needed a little luck, and the best seemed to create it. Riesling was almost that good: he knew men and war so well, his plans often met with remarkably good fortune as a result of preparedness.
Today, he was unprepared. He hated the feeling. He knew nothing about what he was to do, or even who precisely he was serving.
If the Drethlord is waiting around for this woman and not bellowing for her immediate appearance, then perhaps he is taking orders from her. Riesling was not the kind of man to dismiss evidence, even if the conclusion it pointed to was unheard of. At the very least, Dracen isn’t willing to summon her, so she is an equal.
In the midst of the organized chaos that was the harnessing of the cart horses and the disarray of breaking camp, Riesling’s gaze was drawn immediately to the graceful, feminine motion of a figure moving toward them, a figure smaller than the men around her. Grey eyes studied him as she drew near, not a hint of emotion in her eyes. The Guardian.
"We have a customer?" she asked dryly, looking him over. Dracen frowned at her. Riesling got the impression that something was wrong, something other than her mistaking him for a customer. Dracen is displeased by her, and not just by her lateness. It is something about her appearance he dislikes. He eyed her up and down. She looks fine to me. A little thin, perhaps, but well-dressed and neatly kept. What is going on?
"Lady Elaina, this is General Gerald Riesling, he is here to see to the recruits that have been joining us. Far more are already gathered in Vinyam." Dracen explained shortly, "Where is A'lan?"
"He departed last night after we returned to camp. At the moment, I would guess he is somewhere in Emon's March."
"Will he be returning?" Dracen pressed. Her only response was a flat stare. Aha, the Lord expected to see this man with her. A guard perhaps? Dracen didn’t question her further, but was not put off.
"Then the general can see to your guard. You can't wander about alone." It is her guard. Does she resent having steel when she has the pillars? Riesling watched how she took the warning, but her expression was flat as slate.
"It is an honor to serve, Lady Elaina." He said, "I can begin the guard as soon as you wish."
"Whatever you please, general." She said carelessly and turned her back on them. Well, she isn’t upset by the idea of me, anyway. He thought wryly. Perhaps she objected to the man . . .
Dracen peered at her retreating back until she disappeared behind a wagon.
"Excellent timing, General. We'll need you now more than ever." He noted grimly.
"Who is this A'lan character?"
"Her Watcher, as Ruslan was for me before the Isolban revolt, or Ravin for Monren. You met them both, I believe, during the Insurrection of Fiandar."
"I thought they swore for life,"
"They do." Came the grim response. Riesling’s eyebrows rose. Oh, that is the trouble then.
"What happened?"
"Her other guards tell me that the Lady was poisoned yesterday, a caster woman came and led them into the woods to her house, and A’lan set the two of them to guarding the path in. When they returned, the Lady was well, but they said nothing to each other. Later he was seen riding out of camp."
"I'll take care to stay on this side of her temper, then." Riesling huffed, but Dracen shook his head.
"That should not be difficult. The Lady Elaina does not have the airs of a caster, happily. Before this, I might have said they acted like a couple courting." The Drethlord finished significantly. Riesling nodded—not a touchy commander, but a lover's quarrel. Dracen doesn’t seem to see the irony in a Drethlord talking about ‘the airs of a caster.’
"What are the dangers? How many will be needed to guard her?"
"She is in no danger from me, and I can think of a few others with certainty. Everything and everyone else, though . . .” His warning trailed off.
Riesling sighed. That leaves a lot of danger. "How many, do you think?"
"No more than five, or she will object."
"Five will not stop very much." Riesling noted gruffly.
"You don't need to stop it, general. You need to slow it down and let her see it. The Lady Elaina is powerful enough to handle anything if you manage that."
The general blinked. Well that’s likely the highest compliment the sour old sore ever gave!
"Anything?" he repeated, doubtfully. He had fought with the Drethlords before and seen the limits to their impressive powers.
"Anything." Dracen confirmed. Very well, if that is what he says.
“You said you know a few who are trustworthy? Seven or so?" Riesling asked, calculating time on the road and time on watch. Dracen frowned.
"Yes. I'll send them to you at once. Until then, you watch her." The order was a growl of annoyance as the Drethlord stalked away.
Rylan ignored the low grumble of Harlon and Lorne arguing over by the horses. The cousins were constantly at each other's throats, even if they would defend each other to the death.
Staring at the fire with half-lidded eyes, he drifted into a daydream of better times, when they had all been boys at Landoram. A grin twisted his lips for a moment.
They had been terrors—traipsing about the fort causing trouble as naturally as birds flew: sneaking sweetbread from the kitchens, playing soldier with any armor left unattended, setting loose an ornery badger on his older brother's picnic with pretty Roselyn, the old blacksmith Slade's daughter.
His eyes flew open. There was a noise that he barely heard, like a horse blowing restlessly nearby. Rylan dug the whetstone out of his belt pouch and reached over to his pile of things to draw a sword. Casually, he began to sharpen it in long strokes.
Whisk. Whisk. Whisk. A shadow moved on his right, but Rylan didn't look up. Let the thing come, whatever it is. Man or beast, he would deal with it in the light of the fire, not scare it off to lurk in the night.
"You won't need that." Came the shadow's voice, silencing Harlon and Lorne. They eased back to the fire, though hands did not yet stray to the hilts over their shoulders. Not yet. A cloaked figure moved into the flickering light.
"I'm Cade. I saw the fire and recognized Antral in your weapons. I may not carry the e'dan and a'lan anymore, but perhaps you have room at your fire for another son of Antral."
Rylan examined him closely. His name was Antralian, as was the cut of his black coat. Dark eyes regarded him frankly, but they were far from readable.
"Rylan of Landoram," he said at last. "And these are Harlon and Lorne of the same." They nodded as they were introduced. The newcomer saluted them in the old way as he bowed—one fist to his chest, the other to the small of his back. Rylan fro
wned. Only officers ever use both hands, everyone else puts a fist over their heart. He filed the thought away.
"Where in the homeland do you hail from, Cade?" Harlon inquired.
"Alcondar, though my family traveled widely." The man answered easily, it was not a lie. Rylan said nothing of the cold bitterness in his tone. Clearly, he is not among those reconciled to the Invasion. That is just as well, neither are we.
"Be welcomed at our fire then, Cade of Alcondar." Lorne said with a quick grin. Nodding, he tossed down the saddlebags he had tossed over one shoulder.
"I must see to my mount," he said shortly, then slipped back into the night as quietly as he had come. In the stillness, Rylan and the cousins considered each other. They did not speak, but Rylan knew that none of them would be far from their weapons that night, Antralian or no.
Cade returned with a towering stallion that was as dark a black as the night around it. Rylan let his eyebrows rise as he studied the beast. This isn’t an everyday farm hack, or even the racer of a gentleman. That beast is a charger, a warhorse, the horse of a battle lord.
His gaze flicked back to Cade, who had saluted like an officer, lived in Alcondar, and rode that creature. Rylan's eyes narrowed, considering. He can’t possibly be that Cade. That’s ridiculous!
"You said your family traveled, your father was a merchant, perhaps?" he asked casually. No expression showed on the newcomer's face as he agreed,
"He was involved with trade." Rylan paused. That was not an answer to the question.
"You've a fine animal there, where did you get him?" Harlon asked, seeing the drift of Rylan’s thoughts.
"It was a gift from my commander." Cade replied shortly. Rylan nodded to himself. Not that Cade, then, if he had a commanding officer. An uncrowned king of Antral would acknowledge no commander.
Five days later, Rylan was not so sure. The newest member of their outfit was born to lead men. He said little, but what he said was as sound as anything Harlon and Lorne could have worked out between them in a week.
The day before, the four of them came across a band of marauders, horse thieves and blacker criminals by their talk. While the three Antralians had never held themselves responsible for keeping order in Amanheld, they made a habit of ridding their current residence of any such groups they came across on the March.
"Let's go!" Harlon growled as they peered down at the camp from a hilltop. The fire below illuminated an circle twenty paces across, and fourteen men lounged in its flickering light. Twice as many horses were picketed just beyond.
"No." Cade disagreed calmly as raucous laughter floated up to them. All three turned to him, but he did not register their surprise.
“The light comes halfway up the hill, here. They'll see us well before we get down. Those two there will take half our number before we reach the bottom," he said, pointing out the men with loaded crossbows leaning beside them.
"They may be country thieves, but they're good enough to survive in this large a group for some amount of time. Two against fourteen is not good odds, even if you make it past the arrows. We'll go around there, against the spur of the hill, and stay in shadow as long as possible. I'll cut the horse lines, draw them into the dark. Some will stay, and you fall on those from there," Cade instructed, nodding to the shadowed ridge at the base of the rise.
"We attack in silence. Fear is half the battle. Make them fear the silence and the dark. If you're going to be surrounded fall back into the night, understood?" When they only stared at him in considering silence, he pressed, "Do you disagree?" None did.
"We'll do as you say, captain." Lorne said with a feral grin. Cade didn't return the smile, just nodded.
Rylan watched him as he led the way off the hill, slinking in the shadows. What sort of man comes up with a plan of attack in a matter of seconds that involves him facing the brunt of the enemy's anger alone in the dark? Never mind that he delivers his orders like a general when he is the newest to the group. Either this Cade of Alcondar is hoping to die, or he is very, very good. Or both.
It was simple for them to get into position, with the bandits drinking and shouting. There were few people to hear you in Emon’s March. Cade slipped off along the edge of the shadow as dark as the night around him, disappearing behind the line of horses.
Slowly at first, the horses began to stomp and snort, blowing restlessly at the unfamiliar shadow in their midst. In no time Cade had them rearing and bucking against their ropes. Rylan watched the thieves divert their attention to the animals.
"Go quiet 'em down, Brice." One suggested. A chorus of others joined in until Brice hauled himself to his feet and trudged toward the unruly horses. Just then, one of the animals gave a scream of fear and the line snapped. They took off into the darkness in a thundering mess of hooves.
"Damn ya to the Evermind, Brice! We'll never catch the beasts now!" someone groused from the fire. A few men stood and marched over to him.
"What set the dumb animals off, anyway?" one man asked.
Bryce's dying cry was his only answer. It set the group to immediate action, jerking them upright like puppets on a string. Hefting their weapons, half charged into the dark, while the others eyed the night restlessly. Rylan could almost see Cade dancing on the edge of the light, leaving death behind him. The bandits couldn't tell quite where he was, and those that happened across him didn't take another breath.
"Let's move, before he does it all himself!" Harlon hissed in his ear, slinking from the shadows. Only two of the horse thieves saw them approach, but the light in their eyes to finally recognize an enemy did not last long.
By the time they cut their way to Cade, there were none left alive. The Antralians counted the bodies and discovered two had fled into the vastness of the March. Rylan kept his own count: Cade had killed seven of the twelve. He hesitated to say anything, but Rylan couldn't help but ask,
"Who was your teacher, Cade of Alcondar? I've seen few men to equal you with a sword." Dark eyes held his, and he stood from wiping his blade on a dead man’s coat.
"Need is a harsh teacher, Rylan of Landoram, and there has always been great need." Harlon and Lorne left off dragging the bodies to the fire to join them.
"It is said that King Alcedar was a great swordsman and taught his sons at a young age. They would have had great need, I am sure." Harlon said meaningfully.
Rylan was not surprised, even if they had not discussed their suspicions. We’ve all been wondering about him, and there are a hundred clues that he is more than he says. Cade did not respond.
"Are you Cade A'lan Gidedrian of Alcondar, captain?" Lorne asked. For a moment, Rylan didn't think he would answer.
"I am." He pulled a chain around his neck from under his shirt to show them a heavy silver ring with a great curling wave on it. As if we would not believe. He has the horse, he fights like a battlelord, salutes like an officer, and commands like a King. And, Truth, but he looks like Archaron.
Harlon sucked his breath between his teeth, and a grin grew on Lorne's face. Rylan stared. Suspicions did not prepare a man for the truth. How did he survive and escape the Drethlords? What of Corin E'dan and Sarina Alcora? What is he doing in Emon's March?
He wanted answers, but he didn't need them. If this man was Gidedrian, then the royal line of Antral was free and unbroken. He was the Prince, and if they could rebuild Antral, he would be the King. Antral will be as it was before, he will restore it. The family Gidedrian will rule from Alcondar, and our people will have a home. We will have a home.
Rylan knelt in the dirt and drew his right-handed sword. Grasping the blade in his hands, he offered the hilt to Prince Gidedrian. The razor edge cut into his palms and his fingers sending streams of dark red down the steel to drip off the point.
"On my blood, I am your man from now to Evermore. My sword is my pledge." He swore in the old way, as men had sworn to the Kings of Antral since the first warriors swore to Aldebaron. They spoke in the common language—a man's oath oug
ht to be above question in any tongue. If Gidedrian took the sword, the oath was accepted. Rylan could feel the Prince's eyes on him.
"I am sworn to protect another, I cannot be King." He said at last. Rylan didn't move. He didn't care. Beside him, Harlon and Lorne knelt and drew their swords. They made their pledge in unison.
The three of them had wandered the wilderness of Arith for years. Even if Antral could never rise again, even if Prince Gidedrian would never be King, they would follow. They would ride where he rode and fight where he fought. If there is to be no home, what honor is left but to defend the royal line? They waited for him to take their swords, their oaths.
He took Rylan's first, then Harlon's, then Lorne's, simply holding each until they closed their fingers on the cross guards. Then he strode off into the night, leaving them to scramble to their feet and follow after. Truth, but he doesn’t say much! Rylan got the feeling that not many of his questions were going to be answered.
General Riesling was marching between the lines of cookfires heading for his blankets when a voice from the nearest fire stopped him.
"General! Could I have a word?" It was Trevanor Ibelin, the young captain from Jernal, and he was already rising to meet him in the semi-shadow.
"What is it, Trevanor?"
"I've been keeping a close eye on Lady Elaina, sir,"
"Good, that's your job."
"Yes, sir. But, I'm worried, General." The young man admitted. He was an earnest sort, a good soldier and a good man, besides. He’ll be a good leader, when the time comes, and his friend with him—what’s his name? Cassio, or something like.
"You think she is in danger? Have you heard anything?" Riesling lowered his voice, glancing around them, but Trevanor was shaking his head.
"Not about that, sir, about her." He shook his head, anxious frown wrinkling his forehead, "She doesn't eat, and I can hear her at night when I'm on watch—she isn't sleeping. She used to be the last one awake every morning, now she's the first. I think she's having nightmares . . ." He paused uncomfortably. Riesling didn't speak. No doubt she’s been given plenty of cause for nightmares.
"I don't know what happened, but you didn't see her before, sir, when he was here. She used to be so . . . alive. She smiled and laughed all the time . . . If not for the eyes and the power, she was as cheerful as a farm girl, sir. And now—" The young man shook his head again.
Riesling studied the soldier. When “he” was here, eh? That will be this Cade person again. Now, is this the concern of a guard or a brother figure? Ah, but at least he cares. He’ll protect her better that way.
"Calm yourself, Ibelin." He said without his usual bark. "She isn't a farm girl, and she had to stop acting like one eventually. I'll keep an eye on her, but I’d bet a month's pay she will soon recover her appetite and other habits. Look to your duties, man. It will work out."