The Dragon's Path

Geder’s face.
    “I’m hurt,” Geder said.
    “You are a knight of the empire,” Kalliam said, and the power in his voice wasn’t anger. “Can you ride, sir?”
    Geder felt some part of the other man’s strength come into him. The world steadied and Geder steadied with it.
    “I can… I can ride.”
    “Then go. Find Lord Ternigan. Tell him the Maccian banners are flying on the west end of the line. Tell him we need help.”
    “I will,” he said and picked up his reins. Kalliam’s mount shifted toward the fight, snorting, but the young knight paused.
    “Palliakio! Go directly to Lord Ternigan.
Directly.
”
    “Sir?”
    “Not to Klin.”
    Their eyes met for a moment, and an understanding passed between them. Kalliam didn’t trust their captain any more than he did. Relief and gratitude surged in Geder’s heart, and then surprise at the feelings.
    “I understand,” he said. “I’ll bring help.”
    Kalliam nodded, turned, and charged for the melee. Geder spurred his horse, riding east across the field. He struggled to unstrap his shield, gauntleted fingers and jouncing horse making the leather and buckles unwieldy. He managed to free his arm at last, and leaned forward, urging the beast faster. An hour ago, the valley had been grass and autumn wildflowers. Now it was churned mud and the roar of brawling men.
    Geder squinted. The mist was gone now, but the wet banners were still darkened and clinging to their poles. He had to find the gold and crimson of House Ternigan. He had to do it now. All around him, men lay in the muck, dead or wounded. The screams of soldiers and horses cut through the air. But the banner of the king’s marshal was nowhere.
    Geder shouted curses, shifting his gaze one way then the other. He felt cold. His bleeding leg was heavy, blood soaking his brigandine as quickly as the strength left his flesh. Every minute that passed made it less likely Kalliam and the others would survive, and his vision was starting to dance gold and darkness around the edges. He tried to stand higher in his stirrups, but his injured leg couldn’t support him. He drove his horse forward. There were the banners of Flor and Rivercourt, Masonhalm and Klin…
    Klin. There, not fifty yards from where he sat, the banner of Sir Alan Klin flew wet and limp over a knot of fighting men. And there among them, the huge black warhorse with its red barding. Geder felt a tug. If it was a mistake, if Klin hadn’t
meant
to send them to the slaughter, then help was there. Right there. But if it had been his intention, and Geder went to him now, Kalliam and the others were dead. He rode on. His leg was numb. His mouth was dry. There, the banners of Estinford, Corenhall, Dannick.
    Ternigan.
    He spurred his horse and the gelding leapt forward, running toward the knot of battle that swirled around the banner. He cursed Ternigan for leading the charge instead of hanging back to direct the battle from the rear. He cursed Sir Alan Klin for sending him and Kalliam into the enemy’s trap. He cursed himself for having taken off his shield, and for having been wounded, and for not moving fast. An enemy swordsman lurched up out of the muck, and Geder rode him down. He smelled pine smoke. Something, somewhere was burning. The gelding was shaking under him, exhausted, trembling. He apologized silently to the beast and put spurs to it again.
    He barreled into the fighting men like a stone thrown through a window. Swordsmen scattered around him, as manyof them Antean as Vanai. Ten feet from the bannerman, Lord Ternigan stood high in his saddle, his sword shining in his hand, and soldiers five men deep keeping the enemy from reaching him.
    “Lord Ternigan!” Geder shouted. “Ternigan!”
    The roar of battle drowned him out. The marshal moved forward, in toward the line where the battle was thickest. A deep crimson rage rolled over Geder’s vision. Kalliam and the others were fighting, dying, for this man. The least the bastard could do was pay some attention. He pushed his shuddering mount forward, pressing through the marshal’s guard by raw determination. The battlefield narrowed to the one lord on his mount. The edges of Geder’s vision contracted, like he was riding through a tunnel that led to the world. When he came within three yards, he shouted again.
    “Maccia, my Lord Ternigan. Maccia’s come on the west end, and they’re killing us!”
    This time, the marshal heard. His head snapped toward Geder, the high,