The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  “Elias’ approach is the talk of the castle, Josua.”

  “As it should be.” The prince, as if he had drunk his fill of the sights before him, turned his back to the parapet and fixed the bright-eyed old man with his own intent stare, “Did you see Isgrimnur off?”

  “Yes. He was not pleased to be leaving in secret, and before dawn.”

  “Well, what else could be done? After we put about the story of his mission to Perdruin, it would have been difficult if anyone had seen him go in priest’s robes—and as beardless as when he was a boy in Elvritshalla.” The prince forced a grim, clench-jawed smile. “God knows, Jarnauga, though I made sport of his disguising himself, it is a knife in my guts to have pulled that good man from his family and sent him out to try and recover my own failing.”

  “You are master here, Josua; sometimes being master means less of some kinds of freedom than that given to the meanest serf.”

  The prince tucked his right arm into his cloak. “Did he take Kvalnir?”

  Jarnauga grinned. “Sheathed beneath his outer robe. May your God save the one who tries to rob that fat old monk.”

  The prince’s tired smile widened for a moment. “Even God Himself won’t be able to help them, in the mood Isgrimnur’s in.” The smile did not outlast the moment. “Now, Jarnauga, walk with me here on the battlements. I need your good eyes and wise words.”

  “I can indeed look farther than most, Josua—so my father taught me, and my mother. That is why I am named “Iron-eyes” in our Rimmerspakk: I was taught to see through veils of deception as black iron cuts spells. But as to the other, I can promise no wisdom worthy of the name at this late hour.”

  The prince made a dismissive gesture. “You have helped us already, I suspect, to see much we would not have. Tell me of this League of the Scroll. Did they send you to Tungoldyr to spy on Stormspike?”

  The old man fell in at Josua’s side, his sleeves fluttering like black pennants. “No, Prince, that is not the League’s way. My father, too, was a Scrollbearer.” He lifted a golden chain out of the neck of his vestments, showing Josua a carved quill and scroll that hung upon it. “He raised me to take up his place, and I would have done no less to please him. The League does not compel; it asks only that one does what one can do.”

  Josua walked silently, thinking. “If only a land could be so ruled,” he said at last. “If only men would do what they should.” He turned his thoughtful, gray-eyed stare to the old Rimmersman. “But things are not always so easy—the wrong and right not always so apparent. Surely this League of yours must have its high priest, or its prince? Was that Morgenes?”

  Jarnauga quirked his lips. “There are indeed times when it would benefit us to have a leader, a strong hand. Our woeful unpreparedness for these events shows that.” Jarnauga shook his head. “And we would have granted such leadership to Doctor Morgenes in an instant if he had asked—he was a man of incredible wisdom, Josua; I hope that you appreciated him when you knew him. But he would not have it. He wanted only to search, and to read, and to ask questions. Still, thank whatever powers that we had him as long as we did. His foresight is, at this moment, our only shield.”

  Josua stopped, leaning with his elbows on the parapet. “So this League of yours has never had a leader?”

  “Not since King Eahlstan Fiskerne—your Saint Eahlstan—brought it together…” He paused, remembering. “There almost was one, and within my time. He was a young Hernystirman, another of Morgenes’ discoveries. He had nearly Morgenes’ skill, although less caution, so that he studied things Morgenes would not. He had ambitions, and argued that we should make ourselves more of a force for good. He might have one day been the leader you speak of, Josua: a man of great wisdom and strength…”

  When the old man did not continue, Josua looked over to see Jarnauga’s eyes fixed on the western horizon. “What happened?” the prince asked. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” Jarnauga answered slowly, eyes still drawn out across the rolling plain, “no, I do not think so. He…changed. Something frightened him, or hurt him, or…or something. He left us long ago.”

  “So you do have failures,” Josua said, starting to walk again. The old man did not follow.

  “Oh, certainly,” he said, lifting his hand as if to shade his brow, staring out into the dim distance. “Pryrates was one of ours once, too.”

  Before the prince could reply to this he was interrupted.

  “Josua!” someone cried from the courtyard. The lines around the prince’s mouth tightened.

  “Lady Vorzheva,” he said, turning to look down to where she stood indignantly in a dress of gleaming red, hair aswirl in the wind like black smoke. Towser skulked uncomfortably at her side. “What would you of me?” the prince demanded. “You should be in the keep. As a matter of fact, I order you to the keep.”

  “I have been there,” she called crossly. Lifting the hem of her dress she ankled toward the stairway, talking as she went. “And I will soon go back, do you not worry. But first, I must one time more see the sun—or would you rather keep me in a black cell?”

  Despite his exasperation, Josua was hard-pressed to keep his face entirely stern. “Heaven knows that there are windows in the keep, Lady.” He lowered his frown to Towser. “Can you not at least keep her off the walls, Towser? Soon we are at siege.”

  The little man shrugged and limped up the stairs after Vorzheva.

  “Show me the armies of your terrible brother,” she said, a little breathless as she reached the prince’s side.

  “If his armies were here, you would not be,” Josua said irritably. ‘There is nothing to see, yet. Now please go down.”

  “Josua?” Jarnauga was still squinting into the cloudy west. “I think there is perhaps something to see.”

  “What?!” In an instant, the prince was beside the old Rimmersman, his body pitched awkwardly against the parapet as he strained to find what the man saw. “Is it Elias? So soon? I see nothing!” He slapped his palm on the stone in frustration.

  “I doubt it is the High King, coming from so westerly a direction,” Jarnauga said. “Do not be surprised you do not see them. As I told you, I was trained to look where others could not. Nevertheless, they are there: many horses and men—too far away still to guess how many—coming toward us. There.” He pointed.

  “Praise Usires!” Josua said, excited. “You must be right! It can only be Leobardis!” He straightened up, suddenly full of life, even as his face clouded with worry. “This is delicate,” he said, half to himself. “The Nabbanai must not come too close, else they will be useless to us, caught between Elias and the walls of Naglimund. Then we shall have to bring them in, where they will be just more mouths to feed.” He strode for the stairs. “If they stay too far, we will not be able to protect them when Elias turns on them. We must send riders!” He went down the stairs at a bound, shouting for Deornoth and Eadgram, the Lord Constable of Naglimund.

  “Oh, Towser,” Vorzheva said, her cheeks flushed with the wind and the pace of events, “we shall be saved after all! Everything will be better.”

  “Just as well with me, my lady,” the jester responded. “I’ve been through this all before with my master John, you know…and I’m not anxious to do it again.”

  Soldiers were cursing and shouting now in the castle courtyard below. Josua stood on the rim of the well, his slender sword in his hand, calling instructions. The sound of metal on metal, as spear buns clanged on shields, and helmets and swords were hurriedly taken from the comers where they had been laid, rose past the walls like an invocation.

  Count Aspitis Preves exchanged a few terse words with Benigaris, then pulled his horse up beside the duke’s, matching him stride for stride through the high, dewy grass. The dawn sun was a shining smudge above the gray horizon.

  “Young Aspitis!” Leobardis said heartily. “What news?” If he and his son were to be on better terms, he must try to show kindness to Benigaris’ intimates—even to Aspitis, whom he consi
dered one of the Prevan House’s less impressive products.

  “The scouts have just rejoined us, my lord Duke.” The Count, a handsome, slender youth, was quite pale. “We are less than five leagues from the walls of Naglimund, my lord.”

  “Good! With luck we shall be there in early afternoon!”

  “But Elias is ahead of us.” Aspitis looked over to the duke’s son, who shook his head and cursed beneath his breath.

  “He has already laid the siege in strength?” Leobardis asked, surprised. “How? Has he learned to make his armies fly?”

  “Well, no, lord, it is not Elias,” Aspitis hurried to amend himself, “it is a large force riding beneath the flag of the Boar and Spears—Earl Guthwulf of Utanyeat’s banner. They have a half a league or so on us, and will keep us from the gates.”

  The duke shook his head, relieved. “How many does Guthwulf have?”

  “Perhaps a hundred horse, my lord, but the High King cannot be too far behind.”

  “Well, little should we care,” Leobardis said, reining up at the edge of one of the many small streams that crisscrossed the meadowlands east of Greenwade. “Let the High King’s Hand and his troop languish there. We are more use to Josua at a short distance, where we can harry the besiegers, and keep the lines of supply open.” With a splash he rode down into the ford. Benigaris and the count spurred after him.

  “But father,” Benigaris said, catching up, “think now! Our scouts say Guthwulf has moved ahead of the king’s army, and with only a hundred knights.” Aspitis Preves nodded confirmation, and Benigaris drew his dark brows together in a frown of earnestness. “We have thrice that, and if we send fast riders ahead we can muster Josua’s forces, too. We could smash Guthwulf against Naglimund’s walls as between hammer and anvil.” He grinned, and clapped his father’s armored shoulder. “Think how that would sit with King Elias—make him think twice, wouldn’t it?”

  Leobardis rode silently for a long minute. He looked back at the rippling banners of his legions stretching back several furlongs across the meadows. The sun had, for a moment, found a thinner spot in the overcast, bringing color to the wind-bowed grass. It reminded him of the Lakelands east of his palace.

  “Call the trumpeter,” he said, and Aspitis turned and shouted an order.

  “Heá! I’ll send riders ahead to Naglimund, father,” Benigaris said, smiling almost with relief. The duke could see how much his son longed for glory, but it would be Nabban’s glory, too.

  “Pick your fastest riders, my son,” he called as Benigaris rode back through the lines. “For we shall move more swiftly than anyone dreams we can’” He raised his voice to a great shout, turning heads all through the field. “The legions shall ride! For Nabban and Mother Church! Let our enemies beware!”

  Benigaris returned shortly to pronounce the messengers dispatched. Duke Leobardis let the trumpets ring out, then sound again, and the great army set out at speed. Their hoofbeats sounded, rolling like rapid drumbeats in the meadow-dells as they passed out of the Inniscrich. The sun rose in the muddy morning sky, and the banners streamed blue and gold. The Kingfisher flew to Naglimund.

  Josua was still pulling on his unadorned, bright-polished helm as he went through the gate at the head of two-score mounted knights. The harper Sangfugol ran alongside, holding something up to him; the prince reined in and slowed his horse to a walk.

  “What, man?” he asked impatiently, scanning the misty horizon.

  The harper struggled for breath. “It is…your father’s banner, Prince Josua,” he said, passing it up. “Brought…out of the Hayholt. You carry no standard but Naglimund’s gray Swan—what better one for yourself could you wish?”

  The prince stared at the red and white pennant, half-unfolded in his lap. The firedrake’s eye glared sternly, as if some interloper threatened the sacred Tree about which it had-enwrapped itself. Deornoth and Isorn, with a few of the other knights nearby, smiled expectantly.

  “No,” said Josua, handing it back. His look was cold. “I am not my father. And I am no king.”

  He turned, wrapping the reins around his right arm, and lifted his hand.

  “Forward!” he shouted. “We go to meet friends and allies!” He and his troop rode down through the sloping streets of the town. A few flowers, thrown by well-wishers from atop the castle walls, fluttered into the churned, muddy roadway behind them.

  “What do you see there, Rimmersman?” Towser demanded, frowning. “Why are you mumbling so?”

  Josua’s small force was now only a colorful blur, fast disappearing in the distance.

  “There is a troop of mounted men coming along the rim of the hills to the south,” Jarnauga said. “It looks from here not a large army, but they are still distant.” He closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to remember something, then reopened them, staring into the distance.

  Towser reflexively made the sign of the Tree; the old Rimmersman’s eyes were so bright and shone so fiercely, like lamps of sapphire!

  “A boar’s head on crossed spears,” Jarnauga hissed, “whose is it?”

  “Guthwulf,” Towser said, confused. The Rimmersman might have been watching phantoms, for all the horizon revealed to the old jester. “Earl of Utanyeat—the King’s Hand.” Farther down the wall the Lady Vorzheva stared wistfully after the prince’s vanishing horsemen.

  “He comes from the south, then, ahead of Elias’ full army. It looks as though Leobardis has seen him: the Nabbanai have turned toward the southern hills, as though to engage him.”

  “How many…how many men?” Towser asked, feeling ever more muddled. “How can you see such a thing, now? I see nothing, and my sight’s the one thing that hasn’t…”

  “A hundred knights, perhaps fewer,” Jarnauga interrupted. “That’s what is troubling: why are they so few…?”

  “Merciful God! What is the duke up to?” Josua swore, rising in his stirrups to gain better vantage. “He has turned east and is galloping full tilt toward the southern hills! Has he lost his wits?!”

  “My lord, look!” Deornoth shouted across to him. “Look there, on the skins of Bullback Hill!”

  “By the love of the Aedon, it’s the king’s army! What is Leobardis doing? Does he think to attack Elias unsupported?” Josua slapped his horses neck and spurred forward.

  “It looks a small force only, Prince Josua,” called Deornoth. “An advance party, perhaps.”

  “Why didn’t he send riders?” the prince asked plaintively. “Look, they will try and push them toward Naglimund, to trap them against the wall. Why in God’s name did Leobardis not send riders to me?!” He sighed and turned to Isorn, who had pushed his father’s bear-helm back from his brow to better scan the horizon. “Now we will have our mettle tested after all, friend.”

  The inevitability of fighting seemed to have drawn serenity over Josua like a mantle. His eyes were calm, and he wore an odd halfsmile. Isorn grinned over at Deornoth, who was loosening his shield from his saddle pommel, then looked back to the prince.

  “Let them test it, Lord,” said the duke’s son.

  “Ride on!” the prince shouted. “The despoiler of Utanyeat is before us! Ride!” So crying, he spurred his piebald charger into a gallop, making the sod spun beneath the horse’s hooves.

  “For Naglimund!” Deornoth shouted, lifting his sword high. “For Naglimund and our prince!”

  “Guthwulf is standing fast!” Jarnauga said. “He holds on the hillside, even as the Nabbanai come against him. Josua has turned to meet them.”

  “They are fighting?” Vorzheva asked, frightened. “What is happening to the prince?”

  “He has not reached the battle—there!” Jarnauga was striding down the wall toward the southwestern turret. “Guthwulf’s knights take the first charge of the Nabbanai! It is all confusion!” He squinted and knuckled his eyes.

  “What?! What?!” Towser put a finger in his mouth, staring and gnawing. “Do not go silent on me, Rimmersman!”

  “It is hard to make
out what happens from this far,” said Jarnauga, unnecessarily, for neither of his two companions, nor anyone else on the castle walls could see anything but a faint smear of movement in the shadow of misty Bullback Hill. “The prince bears down on the fighting, and Leobardis’ and Guthwulf’s knights are scattered along the hillslopes. Now…now…” He trailed off, concentrating.

  “Ah!” said Towser in disgust, slapping his skinny thigh. “By Saint Muirfath and the Archangel, this is worse than anything I can think of. I might as well read this in…in a book! Damn you, man—speak!”

  Deornoth found it all unfolding before him as in a dream—the murky shimmer of armor, the shouting and the muffled crash of blade on shield. As the prince’s troop bore down on the combatants, he saw the faces of the Nabbanai knights come slowly up, and the Erkynlanders’ too, an eddy of surprise rippling out through the battle at their approach. For a timeless instant he felt himself a fleck of shining foam, prisoned at the crest of a hanging wave. A moment later, with a shocking roar and clash of arms, the battle was all around them, as Josua’s knights came full against the flank of Guthwulf’s Boar and Spears.

  Abruptly there was someone before him, a blank, helmeted face above the rolling eyes and red mouth of a war-charger. Deornoth felt a blow to his shoulder that rocked him in his saddle; the knight’s lance struck his shield and slid away. He saw the man’s dark surcoat before him for an instant, and swung his sword with both hands, feeling a shivering impact as it caromed past the shield and struck the knight’s chest, toppling him from his steed down into the mud and bloodied grass.

  For a moment he was clear; he looked around, trying to find Josua’s banner, and felt a distant throb in his shoulder. The prince and Isorn Isgrimnur’s son were fighting back to back in the midst of a swirling surge of Guthwulf’s knights. Josua’s swift hand darted out, and Naidel pierced the visor of one of the black-crested horsemen. The man’s hands flew to his metal-clad face, covered in an instant with red, then he was yanked down out of sight as his reinless horse reared.