Saint Camber Page 11

  The full heat of battle never really touched Cinhil, either, though he did manage to bloody his mace a few times, when occasional foot soldiers would break through his guards and threaten his person. But Joram and his men, early separated from Camber, fought hard and with heavy losses, as did young James Drummond and Jebediah and the bulk of the Michaeline knights.

  Alister Cullen, too, sustained heavy losses among his Michaelines, though he held his own well enough. When, by late afternoon, the tide of battle had finally shifted in favor of Cinhil, Ariella’s forces appeared to be in ragged retreat. The Torenthi troops, with little personal stake in the battle other than lives, abandoned the field to Ariella’s exiles and beat for home, leaving the Gwynedd men to fend for themselves. Cullen and his faithful Jasper Miller and a handful of other Michaelines had harried a smaller troop of stragglers into the edge of a wood and there cut them to pieces, taking no prisoners. They were wheeling to rejoin the main mop-up parties on the plain, a few of them nursing minor wounds, when Jasper suddenly gasped and pointed toward the trees.

  “Is that Ariella?”

  Cullen turned in his saddle, shading his eyes to see more clearly in the murky wood, then set spurs to his mount with a hoarse cry. His men turned to follow at a gallop, soon crashing through dense underbrush to confront a cornered quarry.

  Ariella’s handful of knights, a flash of Healer’s green among them, turned and formed a solid line to shield their mistress in this last, desperate encounter. Ariella had shed her armor in favor of lessened weight, and huddled almost childlike on the big dun war-horse, wrapped only in a thin mantle of white wool over her white shift, her face tense and anxious beneath a tumble of dark gleaming hair.

  “Surrender, Ariella!” Cullen shouted, pulling his horse up on its haunches as his men formed a matching line. “Your army is routed. You cannot escape. Surrender, and pray for the king’s mercy!”

  “The king’s mercy?” Ariella retorted. “What care I for that?”

  “There is no hope of escape,” Cullen repeated. His horse plunged under the restraint of the curb, and he controlled it with his knees. “Surrender now, and avoid yet more meaningless deaths. Your cause is lost.”

  Ariella did not speak, but suddenly the glade filled with the glow of Deryni shields being raised by all of Ariella’s men. Coruscating brilliance surrounded them as they charged, the power as quickly countershielded by Cullen’s Michaelines, as they took up the challenge and spurred forward as well. The glade echoed to the screams of men and beasts, rang with the clash of weapons on shields and energies being launched and parried.

  The horses were among the first casualties. Grim-faced warriors, desperate to gain any advantage in a battle which could mean life itself, struck men and animals without compunction; aimed especially for the horses in the first seconds of combat—for a knight unhorsed, even a Deryni one, faced grave odds when thrown afoot among mounted men.

  Cullen fought like a madman, wheeling his charger in desperate circles, trying to protect as many of his men as possible and to inflict as much damage to the enemy as he could, before he, too, was unhorsed. A man from either side and several of the horses were killed outright in the first clash of power. From there it progressed to a grim, hacking battle, shouts giving way to screams and the clang and thud of weapons striking shields and flesh.

  Jasper Miller killed two of Ariella’s seven before he, too, was slain; and the man who killed him was, himself, struck down by another Michaeline’s avenging sword—and that man fell to the sword of Ariella’s Healer, who was acquitting himself appallingly well for one of his calling.

  Cullen, though unhorsed after a few minutes, fought valiantly, taking several dangerous wounds and giving many more, until at last he alone stood in the glen, blocking Ariella’s only escape route like an avenging angel, his dripping sword held two-handed before him in guard.

  One of his Michaelines still moaned feebly to Cullen’s left, and the mortally wounded Healer was trying pitifully to crawl toward his mistress, one arm severed at the elbow and dangling by a shred of muscle. Other than those two, only Cullen and Ariella remained upright and reasonably functional.

  Ariella herself was still mounted, but her stallion was plunging with terror at the noise and the smell of blood, nostrils flared and eyes white-rimmed. It was all she could do to keep her seat and still hold the animal on the side of the glade away from Cullen and his sword. Her mantle had fallen back on her shoulders with the exertion, and her hair tumbled loose down her back like a second cloak. She was not unaware of the visual impression she presented as she brought her mount under trembling control. She tossed her head pridefully as she leveled her glance at Cullen.

  “You fight bravely, Vicar General,” she cried. Her horse snorted at her voice, finally calming enough to stand fidgeting beneath her. “I could yet pardon your treason, if you will swear to serve me faithfully.”

  Cullen stared at her in disbelief. “Swear to serve you? Are you mad? You speak as if it is you who have had the victory. You are my prisoner, not I yours.”

  “Your prisoner?” Ariella laughed, a harsh, contemptuous rasp, and her horse danced and sidled a few steps closer, eyes rolling nervously. “Vicar General, it is I who remain mounted and unharmed. Look at you. You are sorely wounded, your men dead or dying. Be reasonable. Give me your sword, and I will spare your life.”

  A strangled, half-animal cry came from Cullen’s throat as he shook his head, and it came as no surprise when, in the next instant, she spurred her skittish mount toward him. He had time only to throw himself to one side and lunge at the horse as it went by, flapping his cloak in the animal’s face and shouting as it started to rear. The animal shied violently—right onto his sword—screamed as it tripped in its own entrails.

  Ariella was catapulted into the brush, and Cullen thought for a moment, as he struggled out from under the dying horse, that she had been stunned by her fall. But as he threw aside his blood-soaked cloak, he saw her staggering to her feet, her face white with fury as her hands moved in spell.

  He shielded with all his strength. He counterattacked, drawing on knowledge he had never used, knowledge he had never believed he would use—for if he could not vanquish her in the beginning, he knew he would not last long with his wounds. Already he could feel his strength ebbing, his vision blurring, as blood pumped from his body. Already he was having to pour far more energy than he should into just repelling her attack. He had not much offensive left in him.

  He was dying. Suddenly, he could deny it no longer. He could feel his faculties starting to go, one by one, his vision dimming now, his hearing dulling, sensation fading from his hands. In an infinite second, he knew that if he hoped to stop her, he must wager all his life and hope and faith on one last, desperate act—must summon up the last dregs of his strength to destroy her.

  It was not easy. Leaning heavily against his sword, he fought his way up from his knees—first one foot under him, then the other. With a massive exertion, he forced his knees to straighten, to bring him upright.

  He could see her standing half across the clearing, her eyes closed, her arms outstretched to either side as she built her power and increased the strength of her attack. He could feel her pressing against his shields more and more relentlessly, and he knew that if he did not act in the next few seconds, he would never act—and she would be free!

  He braced himself on spraddled legs, taking all his remaining strength to raise the hilt of his sword to his lips, to kiss the sacred relic in its pommel and pray as he had never prayed before.

  Then he grasped the sword, spearlike, and hurled it straight and true, never noticing that the steel had cut his fingers almost to the bone.

  He fell as it left his hands, eyes closing upon a darkness which became more and more profound.

  He heard no other sound.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  And thou shalt be called by a new name, which the mouth of the Lord shall name.

  —Isaiah 62:2 />
  The shadows were lengthening and fading when the forces of Gwynedd began to reassemble. Cinhil was off with Jebediah at the base of the ridge, receiving grim preliminary reports on casualties, but Camber and Joram reached the crest almost simultaneously, and now sat their horses side by side to survey the darkening plain.

  Shadows moved amid the gloom—hospitalers searching among the slain for any men yet alive, and grooms putting foundered beasts out of their misery, and lesser-wounded men limping their slow way back to camp. Away to the left, the watch fires of the infirmary tents were being kindled, bright points against the lowering dusk, and behind them the previous night’s camp began to come to life.

  Far across the plain, an occupation force moved through the enemy’s encampment, taking provisions and occasional prisoners and securing the camp against further belligerence. Troops of Gwynedd cavalry patrolled the edges of the battlefield to guard against looting and to protect those who tended the wounded against attack by any remaining invaders. The cries of the injured and dying drifted up faintly to the ridge crest, the only sounds in the gathering twilight.

  Camber and his son sat quietly for some minutes. There was a smear of blood across Joram’s right glove, and another across his forehead, but none of the blood was his. His mail was still mostly intact, if somewhat bloodied, and his hair shone in damp bronzed tendrils where he had pushed back his coif. Camber, too, was relatively unscathed, save for a liberal coating of mud and a giant rip across the back of his Culdi surcoat. His bare head gleamed silver in the waning light as he handed helmet and shield to a squire who approached to take them.

  “How many did you lose?” Camber finally asked, glancing below where the Michaeline banner identified a sizable troop of Joram’s order escorting a train of prisoners.

  “Too many—but then, that is always the case.” Joram dropped his own shield on the ground beside his horse and eased steel-shod boots out of the stirrups. “And you?”

  “The same.” He paused. “I see that Cinhil is still functional, at any rate. Have you any idea how he fared?”

  Joram shrugged. “You see him riding. One can only assume that he’s all right. Right now, I’m more concerned that no one saw Ariella after midday. You don’t suppose she’s escaped again, do you?”

  “Dear God, I hope not,” Camber murmured. He raised a hand as Rhys cantered up the hill and reined in before them. Though he had thrown on his Healer’s mantle against the growing damp and chill, the hem of his tunic showed bloodstains where he had wiped his hands or tried to ease an injury, and there was dried blood around his knuckles. His face was drawn and pale with exertion already, his eyes dark-circled. He took a gasping breath as he nodded greeting to them.

  “I can’t stay long unless one of you needs me, but I wondered whether you’ve seen Father Cullen recently. We’re going to lose some men down there, and a few of them wanted him, in particular, to give them absolution.”

  Joram’s face became more still, and he glanced distractedly around the battlefield again. “I haven’t seen him for hours. Father, have you?”

  Camber cocked his head as though trying to place the memory, then gestured toward a wooded area to the right.

  “He and some Michaelines were chasing a band of stragglers over there. That’s been half an hour ago, though. I hope nothing’s happened.”

  There was a shout from the bottom of the hill, and Rhys raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  “Well, I’m afraid I haven’t time to help you look. My services are needed below. When you find him, would you send him down?”

  “Of course.”

  “Godspeed, then.”

  As he turned his horse and started down, Joram glanced at his father, reining his own horse sharply to keep it from following Rhys’s.

  “Do you think something has happened?”

  “Let’s find out,” Camber replied.

  For answer, Joram touched heels to his mount and began picking his way down the hill. Camber followed a few paces behind, trying to ease the limp his own horse had developed.

  Dead men lay in the wood—enemy slain, at first, but then the first Michaeline, his blue surcoat stained almost black in the feeble light. Camber lingered there a little, trying to ascertain what had happened, but Joram hardly paused, calling from ahead that he had found another body—this one wearing the tunic of the Festillic invaders. He rode on, disappearing from sight in the trees ahead.

  Camber’s apprehension grew as he followed the trail of bodies. The second Michaeline he found bore the badge of Alister Cullen’s personal guard, and a glance beneath the cloven helm revealed him to be Cullen’s faithful friend and aide, Jasper Miller.

  Camber stiffened at that, a hand straying unconsciously to the hilt of his sword, for if Jasper had fallen, Cullen must be in serious trouble indeed not to be at his side. He caught Joram’s repeated exclamations of anguish and dread surprise ahead, and impulsively he scrambled back onto his horse and urged it ahead as fast as it could manage. Even before he rounded the last turn, Camber sensed what he would find.

  Gently he reined in at the edge of the clearing and dismounted, pausing to conjure a sphere of gentle silver handfire before moving closer to where the man lay.

  Cullen was lying on his side, head cradled against an outstretched arm as if deep in sleep. But there was blood on that arm, and across his chest, and a dreadful gash across his ribs which had cut partway through mail and leather and all, so great had been the force of the blow which delivered it.

  Camber froze fleetingly at the sight, instantly casting about for signs of lingering danger, but there were none. He caught Joram’s presence, agitated but safe, rummaging in the brush far across the clearing, but there was no menace yet remaining—only the body of the man before him, and other bodies lying in the growing shadows, men and beasts alike, and the smell of blood and death.

  With a conscious effort, he forced himself to relax the physical tension of his body, breathing again, flexing the hands which had clenched in readiness at the first inkling of disaster. Setting the handfire to hover like an early moon, he wearily crossed the few steps to kneel at Cullen’s head, stripping off gauntlets before he held one hand above the priest’s brow. A chill swept through him as he extended his Deryni awareness along the dead man’s body.

  Cursed be whoever had done this, for Cullen both was and was not dead! His body had been slain, but some essence of his being remained—isolated from his body beyond all reunion, yet caught still in some vicious bond which endured even beyond the death of his assailant. There could be no return of that essence to its body in this life, for the silver cord had been severed, the bond of soul and body broken. The body was already past all animation, the vaults of memory fading with the body’s warmth.

  With a shudder, not yet prepared to do what must be done to release the dead man, Camber closed his eyes and searched for strength. It seemed only seconds before he felt Joram’s approach. He raised his head in anxious query as his son shuffled slowly into the circle of hovering handfire.

  Joram’s face was ashen, the strain of unspeakable tension etched so indelibly on his features that Camber dared not even ask its source. He fell heavily to his knees across from Camber, his head pitching forward so loosely on his chest that for an instant Camber feared for him—until he heard the stifled sob.

  Then Camber knew that it was grief, not personal injury, which blurred his son’s mind to despair. He glanced down at the body of Cullen lying between them, then reached out a hand and laid it on Joram’s shoulder. The young priest flinched at his father’s touch, drawing ragged breath and shaking his head when Camber moved as if to speak.

  “We Deryni do not always slay cleanly,” Joram said. His voice was raw and strained near to breaking, and for an instant Camber feared again for his well-being, though he forced himself to put aside his fatherly concerns for more far-reaching questions.

  “What did you find?”

  “Ariella.” Joram stared blindly a
t the body between them. “Cullen and his men apparently saw her trying to escape and pursued her into this wood. Their men killed one another, and then he and Ariella fought to the death—and Ariella fought even beyond.”

  “What!”

  “At least we need not worry further on that,” Joram whispered bitterly. “She failed.”

  He gestured with his chin toward the brush from which he had emerged, and Camber’s eyes followed his direction. Then, pausing only for a quick glance back at Joram, Camber scrambled to his feet and ran across the clearing.

  Ariella lay half slumped against a tree, her slender form transfixed by a sword, its cross-hilt swaying slightly in the breeze of his arrival. As he knelt in disbelief, drawing more handfire into being, he could see that the sword was Cullen’s Michaeline blade, sacred symbols engraved on the steel, its pommel twisted and charred by a force which had all but destroyed it.

  He blessed himself—not at all an empty gesture, in the light of what had happened here—then turned his attention to the woman, gingerly pulling aside the blood-soaked white mantle. At first he thought she had only tried to escape the pinning blade—the dead fingers were near the steel, and she would have struggled long before she died, with vitals thus pierced.

  But then he looked more closely at her hands and knew that they were not on the blade at all, sensed instantly what she had tried to do. The now-dead hands were still cupped together on her breast, the fingers still curved in the attitude of a spell believed by most to be impossible, merest legend. No wonder Joram had been so shaken.