He didn't like waiting in such cold. It was hard on men and horses. Most of his ylver could manipulate their metabolism and circulation to some extent, to keep warm, but it drained their energy reserves. So they were under orders to use the technique only to keep their fingers warm, and in emergencies, their feet.
And just now their ears, for they'd turned their earflaps up, listening for the enemy's approach. Still, despite the general silence and his acute hearing, the sound of the column sneaked up on him. Suddenly he was aware of the plop-plop of hooves on packed snow. The advance guard, he supposed. Quietly he drew his saber. The hithar passed in front of him, well enough screened by the hemlocks and roadside undergrowth, that all Cyncaidh saw of them was movement. Then came the chink of trace chains, and the squeak of runners on packed snow in forty degrees of frost. He couldn't hear a thing from the teamsters. They were, he supposed, too numb to talk.
For long minutes the sleighs passed. Cyncaidh had tensed. His right wing would attack the advance guard at any moment. Then he'd…
He heard shouts from the head of the column, and spoke a low word of command. His trumpeter blew a long shrill note, and all along the road the ylver charged, Cyncaidh with them. But as they plunged through the roadside undergrowth, the column's escort surprised them, meeting them not with the usual sabers, but with seven-foot spears. A few of the raiders reacted too slowly, and the horses were stabbed in head or neck, but most reined back, briefly confused. At the same time, soldiers arose on the wagons, out of the hay or from beneath tarps, crossbows in hand.
Cyncaidh felt a bolt slam through his Cuirass, and into his upper left chest.
The escort had never intended to fight with their spears. They'd served mainly to halt the charging ylver, making them more susceptible to crossbow fire. Fighting in the saddle at a near standstill, spears were not the weapon of choice, and the escort dropped them. Before most of the raiders could recover their wits, the hithar engaged them with sabers.
The ylver fought furiously and skillfully. Some killed or wounded or unhorsed their opponents, some forced them back. Others died. In the melee, the crossbows had largely stopped. Cyncaidh's trumpeter and deputy had hung back, as they were supposed to. They saw their wounded commander defending himself against a soldier. Then, deflected by Cyncaidh's blade, a powerful saber blow slammed his helmet, and he fell from the saddle.
The deputy saw the hithik rear guard charging up, shouted an order, and the trumpeter blew the quick notes of retreat. As best they could, the ylver disengaged and galloped back into the forest, crossbowmen sending bolts after them.
Nearly a hundred bodies lay in the snow, more raiders than escorts. Not all of them were dead.
The Younger Quaie and his party had met with a voitik officer the evening before, at the flank post. There'd been no actual negotiations. The voitu had asked questions, then presented terms. Quaie had accepted. He had nothing to negotiate with except his services, and at any rate he felt optimistic. He usually was, manically so, despite the mental abuse visited on him by his famous and sadistic father. Just now, in fact, he felt positively exhilarated; he would soon have the respect he desired and deserved. This voitik prince needed someone who knew the people, politics, and power sources of the empires and the Marches. And he was that man. As time passed, the voitu would rely more and more on him. He'd have rewards, power, people subject to him, whom he could do with as he pleased.
They spent a second night in the rude cabin assigned to them, and slept late. When Quaie awoke, his exhilaration had faded. Breakfast was more spare than he'd expected. After eating, he said good-bye to his bodyguards. That was the hardest part of the bargain-harder even than being searched. Then his new driver led them outside, and watched while they got back in the cutter.
Quaie felt alone now, exposed and anxious. His driver was a large, hard-looking, frightening man with a face seeming carved from pale, scarred stone. Even the voitik sublieutenant who would accompany them spoke courteously to the creature.
For days, Quaie's hostage had traveled gagged and hooded, nearly hidden beneath heavy furs. After they'd crossed the river, Quaie had removed the gag; they would no longer encounter ylvin couriers and other travelers. Now, as the cutter moved smoothly away into the forest, he smirked at her. "Soon you will meet your new husband," he taunted. "And if you please him well enough, who knows? He may not share you out."
She didn't answer. The Younger Quaie was well known as susceptible to taunts, but infuriating him could have no good result.
The cutter was drawn by excellent horses on packed snow, and moved briskly. Here the countryside was a fertile till plain, but very stony. Thus it was largely forest, with occasional farm settlements rich in stone piles, rough stone fences, and stone foundations topped with the charred remains of buildings. The voitu loped tirelessly ahead of them, eating occasionally from his pocket as he ran. The creature impressed Quaie greatly; his only stops were to turn his back to the cutter and relieve his bladder. Quaie wished the voitu wouldn't turn away. He wanted to see what the creature had.
Twice they met large mounted forces patrolling the road. They wore uniforms like his driver's-quite different from those of the hithik soldiers at the flank post-and their men looked dangerous. The fabled rakutur, Quaie told himself. They must be.
The sun had set, and dusk was thickening, when they rode into a large cleared area, perhaps a mile square. Here there were no stone piles. Along the road were only the stubs of hedges cut since the last snow, and the charred remains of brush piles. In the southeast quarter of the clearing were buildings, a hamlet's worth, with lamp- and candlelight burning in windows. He was, Quaie realized, almost to the next phase of his great adventure, his new life.
As she got out of the cutter, Quaie threw the fur hood back from Varia's head, exposing her face. Then he gripped her arm needlessly. His strength surprised her. He'd always seemed smaller than he was. Now she realized his seeming weakness had also been an illusion. But not his mental problems; they were genuine.
Their tireless voitik sublieutenant entered the stone manor house ahead of them. Their driver herded them from behind. Varia found the rakutu disquieting. There was a sense of cruelty about him, and more unnerving, hatred.
The entryway opened into what had been a large parlor. Now it was a reception and office area, with numerous administrative personnel, and guards. As she entered with Quaie, eyes turned to them, but they were not challenged. They'd been expected.
The interior was rustic but well-constructed, with heavy, rough-hewn beams, and hardwood floors. The sublieutenant led them up a staircase. At the top, they turned down a hallway to a guarded door at the end. The voitu knocked. The door was opened by another voitu whom Varia realized was in early adolescence; a page or orderly she supposed. The sublieutenant ushered them in-Quaie first, then herself.
She knew at once which of the several voitu there was the crown prince. Even for a voitu he was tall, and his charisma struck her at once. Like the other voitar, his aura was strange, but it was a ruler's aura nonetheless. Like Raien's and Curtis's, and Sarkia's, but more intense than any of them.
He looked first at her, taking in her red hair and green eyes, then at Quaie, then at the sublieutenant. "Yes, Lieutenant?" he said.
The young officer bowed, a short half-bow. "Your Majesty, I have brought the ylvin Lord Quaie. And his captive."