Beyond the Burning Lands

by John Christopher

  We circled each other, and the iron of his boots struck sparks from the cobbles. I had hoped anger might unbalance him, but he showed no signs of it. He smiled, and said in a level voice:

  “You are returned a great warrior, I am told. Greene told me of your exploits before he knew your crime. Luke, the slayer of the Bayemot, who won a king’s daughter in the land of the Wilsh. . . . I am honored to face your sword.”

  I lunged while he was talking. He parried, back-handed, without breaking the rhythm of his speech. Steel struck steel and the shock jarred up my arm. I darted back, expecting the riposte, but he stayed where he was and laughed.

  “Is this the Bayemot-killer? Is Bayemot the name the Wilsh give to rabbits?”

  I thrust once more and was beaten back, and thrust again. I called in my mind to my demon to aid me, to bring me the strength and fury that I needed now as much as when I had struggled in the clinging embrace of the monster. But he would not come. Instead I saw the gentle face of Ann and my brother’s mask of grief. I was innocent of her murder but she had died because of me. That much was true.

  Again I came at him but my blows were like the wing beat of a fly against a hornet. The crowd cheered him on but he needed no encouragement. Once my foot slipped and, still smiling, he allowed me to recover.

  He mocked me. “You sweat. Are you warm, rabbit-killer? You will be warmer soon.”

  Then, as I attacked, instead of passively taking the blow he struck. Fatigued and sick at heart as I was, I could not but admire the way he did it, pivoting perfectly and smashing his sword across my own. My nerve endings were shot through with pain. I staggered and fell, and the sword dropped from my numbed fingers. He took a step forward and put his boot on it.

  “And now,” he said, “will you walk to the stake like a man, or shall I prick you on with my sword point?”

  The mob was shrieking for joy. I looked up at him, smiling with hate above me. I thought I heard my name called but it could only be in derision. Then I heard it again, through the baying.

  “Luke!”

  I turned my head. Edmund had pushed through beside his brother. He had something in his hand: another sword. The sword I had left in the camp when I went out to walk in the moonlight—the sword the High Seers had forged for me in the Sanctuary.

  He sent it skittering across the cobbles. Peter could have struck me down as I reached for it but did not. He said:

  “I think now you have run out of friends and swords. One more makes no difference.”

  My hand closed round the hilt. I had one friend in the crowd, as Peter had said, and it had taken great courage to do what he had done. Courage in a cause which he must be sure in his heart was lost. And another friend, hanging in chains and waiting for the torch to be put to the straw at his feet. At last the demon rose and I leaped at my tormentor with an angry shout. They might give me whatever death they could impose, but they would not make me go tamely to it.

  Peter knew the difference with a warrior’s instinct. There was no more careless ease and no more mocking. He fought with skill and coolness and professional silence. The crowd, also sensing the change, quieted in their turn. I heard nothing but the thud of our feet, the clang and hammer of our swords as we traded blows. Once there was a deep indrawn sigh, from a thousand throats. It was not until blood trickled down my arm and split in heavy drops on the stones that I realized what had prompted it; and that I was hit. I had felt nothing.

  Always his strength forced me back. I battered against a moving wall of steel, and muscle that seemed no less hard. I slipped a second time and he did not stand back but came after me. I twisted away from the blow which, had it landed, would have sliced my arm off at the shoulder as one carves a chicken at table; and darted clear. He moved swiftly, swinging his sword in an arc of brightness through the dull air. Then I met him, with every ounce of strength I could muster, in a downward smash that matched his own. Metal shrieked in the clash, and the agony of the shock almost made me fall. But I kept my balance and my sword. And saw his, broken to a stub only inches from the hilt, the blade shattered and useless at his feet.

  For a moment we stared panting at each other. I could scarcely draw breath to speak. At last I said:

  “I am innocent of her death, as Martin is. Keep your city and your title. We will go elsewhere, my friends and I.”

  His answer was a howl that was neither of grief nor rage. It had both in it and more: madness and despair. He rushed at me, swinging his broken sword, and could have wounded me, even killed me, had I not jumped clear. He turned and came again. I thrust for his right shoulder to disarm him. But he leaped, careless of defense, seeking only to reach my skull with his shattered weapon, and the point of my sword took him between the ribs. His weight and the impetus of his charge wrenched it from my grasp.

  But he lay on the cobbles, unmoving, with the point thrusting out through his back, and his blood gushing from beneath him. The stones were not stained for long. In the silence that followed, while people strove to take in what they saw, the first thick drops of rain fell from the sky. After that it came in a torrent, washing his blood away.

  • • •

  My first act as Prince was to make Edmund a Captain. He sat with the others in the Great Hall when Ezzard was brought to me. I said:

  “Before Prince Peter, my brother, you were charged with using machines, with treason, and with murder. Each of these crimes is punishable by death. His court condemned you. Do you have anything to say against the sentence that was passed?”

  He stood there, very tall in his black robe which was torn at the sleeve and rust-smeared from the chains. The deep blue eyes stared above the beaked nose. He said:

  “No, sire.”

  “What of your Acolytes?”

  “They acted only under my orders.”

  “All of them?”

  “Not all. There were some who knew nothing of this.”

  “Name them.”

  He spoke three names and the third was Martin’s. I felt the tremor of relief run down my legs. I said:

  “Do you swear it, as you stand in the shadow of your death?”

  He said in a cold, bleak voice: “By the Great Spirit, I swear it.”

  “Then the sentence on those three is rescinded. On you and your accomplices it stands. For the crimes which you confess you must die in the palace yard. But we will have no more burning. The ax will take your life.”

  The tall, thin figure bowed toward me.

  “I thank you for this mercy, sire.”

  My legs trembled still, and I shifted my feet to hide it.

  I said: “Take him away.”

  • • •

  When the High Seers came I received them with formal ceremony. Later we sat in private in the little chamber behind the Room of Minors. Lanark said:

  “You have done well, Luke.”

  I said: “And so have you. Ezzard is condemned by the High Seers as well as by the Prince of Winchester. You bring us a new Seer to replace one whom false Spirits drove mad. And the true Spirits speak again in the Seance Hall.”

  Lanark watched me. He was very old, with brown grave marks on his hands and face. He said:

  “Ezzard also played his part.”

  “I am tired of this playing of parts,” I said. “We talk of men, not actors. I saw him die. The axman, I suppose, was nervous, never having taken the head of a Seer before. It required three blows to finish him.”

  “At least you saved him from the fire.”

  “And those four others who merely did as they were told, and helped him lay the cable and set up the generator? They obeyed orders and died for it. But whose orders did Ezzard obey?”

  “No one’s,” Lanark said. His voice was tired. “And he did not tell us what he planned to do.”

  “Can I believe that?”

  “It is true. He did many things without consulting us. It was by his doing that your father was made Prince. He was a man of initiative but the initiative was not
always well based. There was no need for this, and it put everything at risk.”

  “Including his life and those of his Acolytes. But if there had been need and the risk acceptable . . . you would have had her killed?”

  His eyes were old, too, and weary from looking into a broken past and a golden future which would not come during his life. He said:

  “We want a better world than this, Luke. Science and human knowledge are not ends in themselves. We use tricks and maneuvers, but we do not murder the innocent.”

  He had given me my answer and I knew he spoke the truth. It was a good answer but all the same I felt regret. I had been ready to disown and repudiate them, to forget the dreams of a new age of peace and order, and think only of this city I had won and that other one beyond the Burning Lands. It would have been much simpler. I said:

  “So it goes on.”

  “It must,” Lanark said. “You have served us well, Luke, but more is to be done. Much more.”

  • • •

  When they had gone I sat alone in the little room. Through the open window came the sound of the din in front of the palace: the crowd cheering and shouting my name. Less than a week ago these same shouters had jeered me as murderer and traitor and jostled each other for a better view to see me burn. Now I was their hero and their Prince, crowned that afternoon by the High Seers themselves—an honor no Prince of any city had known before. In an hour or two the Captains would drink to me at the coronation banquet. And soon I must go out onto the balcony to let my people see me.

  It was triumph, I supposed, but it brought no joy. I sat in the old chair in which my father had sat, and Peter after him. On the wall hung Margry’s painting of my mother. In skill it was not to be compared with those in the high-towered city of the north, nor with that small likeness of an old man in the ruined palace in the forest; but it touched my heart as those had not.

  There had been so many deaths since hers. I had been a boy then, and now was Prince of Winchester. And the rain had washed the cobbles clean of my brother’s blood.

  The distant voices roared:

  “Luke! Luke!”

  I knew I must go and show myself to them. And after that there were things to be done: the high and necessary duties of a Prince.

  But I sat on as dusk drew down over the city, thinking of the unalterable past—and all my dead.

  Read on for a peek at the final book in the series!

  LESS THAN A WEEK AFTER I was acclaimed Prince of Winchester the pigeons brought a message of defiance from Petersfield.

  That city had been taken by my father, Prince Robert. On the advice of the Seers he had kept it, rather than exact ransom as was the custom. He had made one of the Petersfield Captains his lieutenant, but the blue and gold flag of Winchester flew from its citadel.

  When my father was killed by treachery and my brother Peter reigned, the men of Petersfield accepted him in turn. He was renowned as a warrior, and had killed the man who killed my father. He ruled both cities, and if there were any in Petersfield who objected they did not do so openly but only murmured in corners.

  Then my brother’s Lady died, accidentally as it appeared. But when I returned from my journey beyond the Burning Lands to the city of the Wilsh, I found myself accused of her murder. In fact Ezzard the Seer had killed her, by means of the forbidden ancient power called electricity. It was done for my benefit—she was carrying the child who would bar me from succession—but I knew nothing of it.

  Nevertheless my brother accused me, along with the Seer and his Acolytes. He ordered me to be burned alongside them in the palace yard. It was then that I challenged him and he accepted the challenge. We fought and his sword broke against mine—that which was forged for me by the Seers in Sanctuary. He flung himself against me, his weapon broken to a stub, and my sword took his life.

  So at last I became Prince, as the Spirits had prophesied years before at the Seance of the Crowns. The crowd which had vilified me and shouted for my death cheered me instead. But that was in Winchester. In Petersfield there were other thoughts. I had won some reputation in the north but the news was not yet widespread. They saw me as little more than a boy, a Prince by accident. They thought the time was ripe to regain their freedom.

  The message that came was brief and insulting. Michael, Prince of Petersfield, sent greetings to the Prince of Winchester. He would do him no hurt so long as he stayed behind his own walls. And he was sending a gift to help him while away the time there. He was also returning something which had been loaned by his predecessor, for which Petersfield had no further use.

  The gift was not long delayed. I was called to the North Gate next morning. During the night the guard had heard the sound of horsemen, but on being challenged they had turned away. They had left some things outside the gate. A wooden sword and shield such as boys use when they play at warriors, and one of those wooden horses that children put between their legs and run with, pretending they are horsemen. There was also the body of Captain Markham, my brother’s lieutenant.

  A crowd had gathered. They stood in silence. They were looking at the toys and the dead man. They were also looking at me. I saw Blaine and Harding, who had bowed the knee to my father and my brother but been their enemies nevertheless. They had pledged allegiance to me, too, but with the same lying tongues. They would pull me down if they could.

  Greene was there as well. He was the Captain who had commanded the expedition to the north. I spoke to him, but loud enough for others to hear.

  “Have this body taken up. Tell the Seer he will be buried with full honors in the Captains’ graveyard.”

  Greene nodded. “I will see to it, sire.”

  “Take up those other things also. Keep them carefully.”

  He was silent. They were all watching me. I paused before I went on:

  “We will tie them round Michael’s neck before we hang him.”

  They cheered at that. Greene’s face spread into a grin. His fingers rolled the waxed ends of his mustache. As I had learned on the expedition he lacked inner certainty, but he obeyed orders and fought well and bravely. I said:

  “How long will it take for the army to be ready?”

  He said confidently: “They can be ready in three days.”

  “No.” I shook my head; their eyes were on me. “You can do better than that. We ride north tomorrow.”

  There was another loud cheer, echoing back from the city’s walls. I turned and left them.

  • • •

  I talked to Edmund in the little parlor behind the Hall of Mirrors. I sat in my father’s old wooden chair, with Margry’s painting of my mother hanging on the wall opposite. The morning had been gray, but with mists that were rising now. At times the sun lanced through. It would be hot in the afternoon.

  Edmund was my friend, although my father had killed his and taken the crown. He had ridden with me on the expedition; and when my first sword broke in the fight with Peter it was he who had thrown me the Sword of the Spirits so that I could fight on. That sword lay now on a table by the window, unsheathed. Briefly the sun dazzled from the steel.

  Edmund said: “It shines brightly.”

  “Rudi has been putting a polish on it. Hans brought it back to me just now.”

  Rudi was Master Armorer to the city. He was also a dwarf: armory was one of the trades the dwarfs kept, as an honor as well as a duty. Hans, his son, had traveled with us beyond the Burning Lands.

  “A polish,” Edmund said, “but not an edge. Even Rudi could not improve on the edge it has.”

  “No.”

  The sword was said to have been forged not by men but by the Spirits. I did not want to talk of this to Edmund because even to him I could not tell the truth: I had given an oath of secrecy to the Seers. To change the subject, I said:

  “Rudi has been busy with a new sword for Hans. He is determined his son will go into battle as well equipped as any warrior of Winchester, and better than most.”

  Edmund’s hand
had been on the sword hilt, caressing it. He turned and said:

  “Into battle? You are not letting him ride with the army?”

  “Yes. He will ride beside me.”

  “But it is impossible,” Edmund said. “A dwarf may not be a warrior.”

  “He rode with us to the north.”

  “As your servant.”

  “And saved my life when I was a prisoner of the Sky People.”

  “It was well done,” Edmund said, “and you are right to reward him. But not in such a way as this.”

  “In what way, then?”

  “With gold. No dwarf can ever have enough of that.”

  “This one can. Gold means nothing to him. He wants only one thing: to be a warrior. And he has earned it.”

  “The Captains will not be pleased.”

  “They will have to learn to be. Or at any rate put up with it. In the same way that Greene learned to eat the flesh of polybeasts even though at first it revolted him. In the same way that he learned to accept a polymuf as his equal at the court of King Cymru.”

  “But we are back in a civilized country, Luke! All that was on the other side of the Burning Lands. We have our customs and they must be kept.”

  I knew the customs as well as he did. Since the Disaster, when the earth had buckled and belched fire, strange things had happened. Beasts had been born misshapen, and men also. Apart from those of human stock there were dwarfs, who were a true breed, and polymufs, who might have any deformity or crookedness.

  Wherever polybeasts were found they were slaughtered, and buried or burned. In the case of children the Seers examined them and made pronouncement, calling them either true man or dwarf or polymuf. Their lives must then be lived in accordance with that decree.

  Polymufs were servants always, and could hold no property. They were pitied at best, more usually despised. Dwarfs, on the other hand, worked as craftsmen and were respected as such. They had goods, even land, and polymufs to serve them. The Master Armorer sat at the Prince’s table in ceremonial banquets. All this was according to custom; and custom held also that only a true man could be a warrior.