He attacked a rider in the uniform of a Haxus officer, someone not much older than a boy. The officer tried desperately to ward off Lynan’s attack, and he started to cry. “Please . . .” he whimpered, blocking another thrust. “Please...” But Lynan only smiled at him and attacked again, his sword slicing through the officer’s wrist, then onto into his thigh. The officer wailed as Lynan plunged his sword into his chest, then gurgled and died.
Lynan roared, driving his horse on. Three more enemies. They saw him coming and split to take him from the front and both sides at the same time. Lynan slashed at the one on his right, his sword sinking deep into the man’s skull. Something stuck in his waist, and he looked down to see a dagger there, half its length inside of him. He let go of the reins and punched the mercenary on his left in the face. The face crumpled and the mercenary fell back. The mercenary in front gaped in horror and tried to back his horse away. Lynan pulled the dagger out of his side, saw a trickle of dark, dark blood run down his shirt, then threw the weapon at the retreating mercenary, striking him between the eyes.
He wheeled his horse in a tight circle, searching for another enemy, but there was no one left to kill. There were no more mercenaries, no more riders in Haxus uniform, no more archers. A troop of his Red Hands galloped up to him, crying his name, their desperate concern obvious on their faces.
“I am all right,” he assured them, then remembered he had been stabbed. He looked down at the wound, but although he found the flat, diamond-shaped cut in his shirt, there was only the faintest mark on the skin underneath.
Prado received a second wound that day, a hard blow to the back of his right hand. The barge pilot had done that. Prado had been surprised the little Chett could fight at all, let alone outfight someone like himself, a mercenary with a quarter century of combat behind him. As soon as they met, Prado had swung for his head, but the Chett had ducked as lithely as a young boy and brought down the hilt of his own sword on Prado’s hand, breaking a few bones and forcing him to let go of his weapon. After that things had become confusing. He remembered being knocked off his horse, two men with red hands falling on him and tying him up. He lost consciousness for a while, and when he woke, the battle was over. The barge pilot had reappeared, made him stand up, and forced him to look over the battlefield.
“We’ve counted them,” the barge pilot told him. “We have removed our eighty dead and already burned them. That is their pyre over there. All the other bodies you see are those of our enemy. Nearly six thousand of them. You are the only survivor.” The Chett leaned closer so he could whisper in Prado’s ear. “But not for long.”
Prado was turned around again. There were five figures approaching. He recognized Kumul and Ager and Jenrosa and—he still could not believe the change—Prince Lynan, but the fifth was a tall Chett female he knew nothing about.
When they were near enough, the barge pilot bowed deeply. “Your Majesty.”
Lynan smiled. “Well done, Gudon. How do you feel?”
The Chett called Gudon breathed deeply and joined his companions. “Rejuvenated,” he said.
“What now?” the Chett female asked the prince. “How do you want him to die?”
“Gudon?”
“I have finished with him, little master. He knows I am the one who brought him down. It is enough.”
The prince stood directly in front of Prado. The mercenary could not meet the eyes in that pale face and had to turn away. Fear curdled in the pit of his stomach, fear of something much worse than death. Lynan turned to Kumul. “When we were finally reunited in the Strangers’ Sooq, I remember you said something about Jes Prado.”
“I said I would fillet the bastard,” Kumul returned.
Prado went white. He had expected to be paraded before the victors and then beheaded. But not...
“He is yours,” the prince said. “But when you are finished, make sure his face is still recognizable.”
It took the rest of the day and the whole of the next to gather all the enemy dead together and burn their remains. An expedition was sent to Rendle’s distant camp to take care of any guards left behind and to bring back all the booty they could find. They returned with horses, weapons, and the news that on sighting them one of the guards—a Haxus regular—had released several carrier birds, all of which had escaped.
Together, the two mercenary forces delivered a great deal of potentially useful booty; horses mainly, but also weapons, stocks of food, including some hay for the horses, and good clothing, including new leather boots and jerkins. Everything was loaded onto most of their surviving mounts, and a few of the less seriously wounded Chetts were charged with escorting them back to the High Sooq for distribution among all the clans; all except some of the stallions which Kumul insisted on keeping.
“Our mares do not make good chargers,” he told his companions. Lynan and Korigan smiled at each other. “What’s so funny?”
“You said ‘Our mares,’” Lynan explained.
Kumul grunted. “With these bigger eastern stallions we can start breeding a proper war horse.”
“We will take your advice on this,” Korigan said, and Kumul bowed slightly for the favor she was showing him.
“What did you want with Prado’s head, lad?” Kumul asked Lynan.
“Did we find Rendle’s remains?”
“Yes, on the slope,” Korigan answered. “His head was already off his shoulders. It got trampled on, but it is recognizable.”
“Good. Put both heads in a basket. Fill the basket with salt and bring it to me.”
“Very well,” Korigan said, her voice flat, and gave the order.
Early the next morning the basket was presented to him. He opened it and placed in it the Key of the Union. Those around him gasped in surprise.
“What are you doing?” Ager asked.
Lynan called for Makon, who appeared moments later, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty?”
“In Gudon’s absence you performed well as leader of my Red Hands.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.”
“I have another important task for you. You must not fail in it. You may take a company of the Red Hands to help make sure you are not interfered with.”
“What is the task, my lord?”
Lynan showed Makon the contents of the basket. “You are to take this to Eynon, chief of the Horse clan.”
Makon could not hide his surprise. “To Eynon? Including the Key of the Union?”
“You are to tell Eynon that the heads are those of the mercenary captains Prado and Rendle, and are a present to him from Lynan Rosetheme, the White Wolf returned. And as a symbol of my trust in him, I also send the Key of the Union, so that he may find me to return it.”
No one said anything as Makon sealed the basket and tied it with sinew. “I will leave immediately.”
When Makon was gone, Lynan looked at the faces of Korigan and Kumul, expecting the greatest outrage from them, but both seemed calm.
“Neither of you have any objection?”
Kumul shook his head. “I do not doubt you know what you are doing,” the giant said.
“And I admire the strategy behind the move, your Majesty,” Korigan said. “You play this game of kingship very well indeed.”
“Ah,” Lynan said quietly, “that’s because I do not think it is a game.”
Chapter 24
Areava had wanted to keep the investiture ceremony brief, but Orkid argued she should use it as an opportunity for a celebration.