Abramm had earlier designated as a reference point a red-leaved bush growing up out of the crumbled remains of an ancient Tuk-Rhaalan wall. As the line of men neared it now, he nodded to the commander of his bowmen. The man bawled the order to “present and draw,” and a hundred bows emerged from beneath their oiled slickers, each already nocked with an arrow. The longbows flipped to vertical and flexed back as strings were drawn to noses and a hundred arrow tips pointed at the sky above the oncoming army.
The commander had his eyes on Abramm as Abramm watched the advancing men. Past the red bush and on to the clump of withered holly. He nodded again, the command went out and a hundred arrows flashed through the air, silver streaks sailing through the rain. By design, they fell just short of the nearest of Gillard’s men, for Abramm remained adamant about preserving the lives of a force he still considered his own. But it worked. As the arrows rained down upon the field, the line of men stopped, and Simon saw fear take them, borne on wings of exhaustion made worse by the constant harrying they’d endured getting here. Some were already shouting and turning away. Angry bellowing ordered them to hold the line. Men grabbed each other, struggled, broke free as more and more turned tail, and the line dissolved entirely.
“See,” Abramm said with quiet satisfaction. “Already they fear us.”
“It would be easy to take them now,” Simon murmured.
“We’ll wait.”
The panicked flight didn’t last long—the men had nowhere to go but back up the gap and into their fellows, who were not about to let them flee. Before long the crisis passed and the enemy troops spread out along their line.
“They’re humiliated,” Simon said. “They will be angry now.”
Abramm smiled grimly. “More important—Gillard will be angry. Although I haven’t seen him out there yet, have you?”
“No, sir.” The scouts had said Gillard was riding with the first column, though, so he’d be here before long. Already his underlings—Harrady, Matheson, Prittleman, and several of Prittleman’s Gadrielite lieutenants—had gathered front and center of the camp. And here came Moorcock to join them.
As another wave of men marched out of the gap, Abramm turned toward Simon. “It’s time,” he said quietly. “You may proceed.”
Simon glanced back at the men who would accompany him, then gathered up the reins and led down the rise. Together they trotted slowly across the wide strip that served as buffer between the two armies, the rain finally letting up a bit. In the camp ahead, all the bustling activity had ceased near the front line, men turning to watch them, the small knot of their leaders pulling out telescopes and holding them to their eyes.
A surprising number of the rank and file were cloaked in Gadrielite gray— new converts, most likely, pressed into service by emotion or impulse, or the compulsion of others. Many more wore the standard wool and armor of the Kiriathan army, their tabards still bearing Gillard’s coat of arms. A little over halfway between the two lines, Simon pulled his horse to a stop, cast back the hood of his slicker, and waited as his escort caught up, letting the men ahead get a good look at him. He could see the wave of startlement sweep through the camp as he was recognized and word spread. Head after head turned his way as each pair of eyes confirmed the truth. So far Simon’s siding with Abramm had been only rumor for most of these men, discounted as one more lie come to dishearten them. Now, for the first time, they saw the rumor was true.
Simon could see with his bare eyes the open mouths of Harrady and Matheson and others—men he’d worked and served with for years, men of honor and determination who, convinced of the rightness of their cause, would not be deterred by hardship and fatigue. Nor even by the sight of their once-revered ally, Simon Kalladorne, publicly showing his allegiance to Abramm. The men they led, however, were another matter. Coming on top of all they had so far endured, seeing Simon serving as Abramm’s herald struck a mighty blow to their morale. He saw it in the eyes of those closest, and in the shock that wilted the bodies of those farther. Hearing the challenge Simon was about to make would strike an even greater blow.
By now he had everyone’s attention and the rain was hissing away to only a few errant sprinkles. Drawing a deep breath, he bawled out Abramm’s challenge in his best battlefield roar: “I am Simon Kalladorne, son of Galbrath, brother of Meren, Uncle of Abramm, Grand Marshall of the royal armies of Kiriath, and I speak for His Majesty, King Abramm, rightful ruler of the land, to his brother, Gillard, Crown Prince and heir to the throne. Thus says the king:
“‘This battle is between you and me, brother. Why spill other men’s blood when we can settle it one on one, in the manner of our ancestors? I propose a meeting between us tomorrow at noon, on this very field, to decide in a trial by combat who shall wear the crown of Kiriath. What say you, Gillard, to this challenge? Will you accept?”’
Simon’s words echoed into silence, broken only by the small movements of the men and horses around him, the jingle of tack, and dripping of the water off them. Harrady and Prittleman watched him like statues, paralyzed by the shock. Then Harrady spoke, and behind him, a runner dashed back through the camp, presumably to find Gillard, who still had not appeared.
Simon waited. Gradually the soldiers began to stir, their chatter rising on the silence as the news spread. Prittleman and Harrady seemed to be arguing, and Simon smiled to himself. No question the men Gillard had brought here would favor this turn of events. Not only would they not have to risk their own lives, but many were no doubt convinced their leader could easily best “Little Abramm” in a one-on-one confrontation, Abramm’s demonstrations at the ball and the royal stables notwithstanding. Prittleman, of course, had felt the touch of Abramm’s blade on his own flesh, but Simon suspected that had only made the man more desirous of seeing Gillard best him.
And finally here was Gillard himself, mounted on the intractable Nightsprol. His white-blond hair frothed about his shoulders, gleaming as bright as his gold and silver breastplate. He rode his fidgeting mount to the edge of the gathering and stopped there, staring at Simon and army ranged behind him. After a moment he signaled the horseman at his side, who advanced a few lengths into the field and shouted back Gillard’s answer.
“His Majesty, King Gillard of Kiriath, accepts the challenge of the Pretender who seeks to steal his crown. He will be here on this field tomorrow at midday, where he looks forward to driving his blade through the Usurper’s heart and so ending this question of who will wear the crown of Kiriath.”
As Simon’s had before him, his words echoed into silence. They sat regarding one another for a long moment, then Simon nodded, and simultaneously the two parties reined their mounts around and returned each to their own side of the field.
As he returned, Simon saw that Abramm had pushed back the hood of his slicker, sitting Warbanner bareheaded and wearing the simple circlet of rule on his brow, so that all might see and know his presence. He was looking at something beyond the returning party of his herald, and when Simon glanced back he was not surprised to find Gillard still there, returning Abramm’s gaze grimly. Abramm broke it off as Simon drew up to him, favored him with a nod and a quiet thank-you, and then they all turned to head back to Stormcroft for the night.
As they did, Simon noted the rank and file of Abramm’s forces had spontaneously formed themselves into a long gauntlet through the camp. A gauntlet not of curiosity, but of honor and respect. For they all knew what Abramm would risk for their sakes on this field tomorrow. Simon stole a glance at his nephew, riding tall beside him, the slicker still cast back. He did not look at the men as he passed them, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere, fixed perhaps on the task that lay before him, but Simon knew the transfer of loyalties had been completed. His own presence no longer mattered. Abramm had won the hearts of his men with his courage and willingness to sacrifice. More importantly, he’d won the hearts of many who were encamped on Gillard’s side of the field, as well.
It had been long indeed since Kiriath had had a
king like this.
CHAPTER
37
Everything was going precisely as Abramm had planned, yet the sense of oppression remained. He had returned from giving his challenge to Gillard, changed into dry clothing, eaten at the long table with his generals, and then attended the Terstmeet Kesrin had conducted in the Great Hall. He had been doing so every night since they’d arrived, and the room was more packed tonight than ever. While he supposed he should give thanks that so many were being exposed to the truth of the Words, he knew many of them came for reasons other than their interest in Eidon: fear, curiosity, the desire to please their king, the desire to be seen as united with their king. . . . Kesrin told him not to worry about it, that it would eventually sort itself out. But it only brought into the light one more complication of being king.
After the meeting, the room more or less cleared, and Abramm’s generals gathered by the fire to discuss today’s events and predict tomorrow’s. Weary of all the speculation and fighting a deep, unrelenting dread, Abramm donned his woolen cloak again and sought the solitude of the keep’s eastern tower. Trap went with him and stayed on guard at the bottom of the steep spiral stair—even here he feared assassins and spies, and given Gillard’s history, rightly so.
Abramm conjured a kelistar and held it before him as he climbed the narrow stair, musty walls brushing his shoulders as he spiraled to the right. The sound of rain drumming on a wooden roof increased as he climbed, becoming a loud rush as he emerged onto the stone-floored turret at the top. Flicking out the orb, he strode to one of the narrow embrasures opening in the turret wall and leaned against the stone ledge. The valley stretched before him, cluttered with tents and picket lines and glowing campfires around the occasional angular forms of a wall, or a gateway, or a portion of the old aqueduct.
He had given Gillard the Eberline Gap, and he wondered if his brother had discovered yet that the only other out for him and his men—northeastward up and over the Pass of the Old Ones—was guarded by men who carried the banner of the shield and dragon. His eyes were drawn now toward that pass, hidden in the cloud cover, and anxiety rippled through him, clenching his gut again, worse now that darkness had fallen. More stories had come in about the Goodsprings Valley bear. It had killed a family at Aely, they said, and the men at Old Woman’s Well had mustered a group to hunt it down. All rumor. Nothing solid to tell him he must go. Except this dread gathering in his middle.
If it’s at OldWoman’sWell, it won’t be here for days. I’ll be done with Gillard long before then. . . . But what’s the point of facing him, possibly even killing him only to die myself the next day? Maybe I should call this whole thing off.
The thought sickened him. But if I’m going to die, anyway . . . Fire and Torment! I should never have come back. All I’ve brought is trouble.
He clenched one hand into a fist where it rested against the stone ledge. My Lord, I am dust and I know it. And if I ever thought I was not, you have brought me yet again to the place where it has become abundantly clear. What am I to do? Stay here and face my brother, or try to find this monster before it kills again? You have promised in your Words to guide us if we ask, and I am asking. Show me the way I should go. . . .
A prickle of warning washed up his spine as his thoughts broke off, all his attention fixed upon the sound he had just heard. The rain had lessened, allowing him to hear what he had not been able to before. Maybe a sniff or the grit of a leather sole on the stone. That sixth sense of awareness, dulled and ignored by his inner turmoil, now bloomed into active seeking. His nape hairs lifted as he realized he was not alone.
Beneath his cloak, his right hand slid to the hilt of his rapier, and he turned his head just slightly. The rain cooperated, dying away almost entirely, until only a chorus of the water dripping off the turret roof remained. There—if not a sniff, then someone with breathing troubles.
He turned, flicking back his cloak with his left hand as he drew the blade free with his right and a kelistar bloomed into being. A woman huddled in the embrasure across from him, cloaked and cowled in dark blue, her blue- gray eyes wide in a pale face dusted with freckles.
Abramm frowned at her, suddenly befuddled. “Madeleine? What are you doing here?”
Her eyes left the tip of his sword and focused on his own. Their rims were red and her cheeks were shiny with tears. “I’m sorry, sir. I did not know you meant to come here. I’ll take my leave at once.” She started to move.
“No.” He slid the rapier back into its scabbard, then looked up at her. “You have not answered my question. Why are you up here? And—” He stepped toward her, conjuring another kelistar, since the first had drifted to the floor. “Are you weeping?”
She gave a start, then brushed her cheeks with a hand. “No! Why would I be?” But she could no longer meet his gaze and wiped at the tears again, turning partway back to her window. “I . . . I get homesick sometimes.”
She contemplated the floor, glanced at the view out her window, then made herself look at him again, a smile straining her lips. “Kiriath can be a lonely place for an outsider.”
He believed that was true, yet somehow he knew she was troubled by more than homesickness. Something warned him off pressing her, though—a light in her eyes that made his heart catch and a new anxiety stir in him.
“I know what you mean,” he said, turning back to his own window.
“But you are not an outsider. You are king.”
“Which may be the loneliest place of all.”
He stared at the camp and the clouds and the darkness. After a moment she came up beside him and for once said nothing, gazing out at the scene below. Her presence gave him an inexplicable comfort, for somehow he could feel the Light in her, buoying him against the dark weight that sought to press him down.
The rain started again, drumming lightly on the roof, and after a time he spoke. “The Words say all who bear the shield have a destiny, unique to each of us. A place prepared for us, in which we are privileged to serve. I thought being king of Kiriath was mine. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Not sure?” Astonishment raised the pitch of her voice. “How could you not be sure, my lord?”
“I may have forced it. I fear my own arrogance—”
“From the very start, has not Eidon made a way for you? Opened all the doors?”
“Eidon is not the only one who can open doors. And as for a way, a way to where? Where am I, my lady? The morwhol is killing people out there because of me.” He nodded toward the dark window. “And even if I can take it down with me, I’ll still be dead. What’s the point in facing my brother tomorrow, knowing that? Yet if I abandon everyone now, I know Gillard will not be merciful to those who have stood with me. If I had not come back, none of this—”
“No.” She cut him off. “Stop there, sir. If you had not come back, the kraggin would still be prowling Kalladorne Bay. Kiriathan Terstans would still be hiding from the Gadrielites, fearful of declaring the truth, as if it were something shameful instead of something glorious. You have made it glorious. And those people you see in your dreams? They are not dying because of you.”
“How do you know about the people in my dreams?”
She turned her gaze toward the opening. “Because I have seen them, too.” Tears glittered upon her eyelashes as she pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling.
“You share my dreams?”
“Echoes of them, I think. I’m sure they are not as vivid as yours.”
How much does she see? Does she know how they always end? Is that why she’s weeping? “So you know it is coming.”
“I do not know anything. It was feeding you images of people dying back in Springerlan before it had done anything. It may be doing that still, for all you know.” She paused. “For it to be the Goodsprings Valley bear, it would have to have grown awfully fast.”
“Mushrooms sprout from the ground overnight. And who knows what ‘fast’ is when it comes to shadowspawn.”
“Well, even if it is, Rhiad made it, not you. Out of his own hatred and jealousy. And your brother is ready to spill the blood of hundreds here for the same reasons. Their sins are not your fault. All you’ve done is stand for what is right.” She laid a hand on his arm, her eyes bright with fervor. “I do not know how it will turn out. But I do not believe you will fail in what you have been called to do.”
Her gaze seized his own and held it, the Light flowing out of her touch on his arm, electrifying him with the force of what she had said—and something more. Something rising in her—and in himself—that he desperately did not want to acknowledge.
Footsteps pounding up the spiral stair behind them delivered him, bring- ing them both around as Trap, a kelistar in one hand, burst out of the stairwell into the turret room. He stopped in surprise, eyes tracking from one to the other of them, as Abramm realized he’d had no idea Madeleine was up here. Then, as always, he put his personal questions away and attended to the business at hand.
“Sire, a woman claiming to be your sister is at the northwest edge of camp. In the company of two Terstans—commoners, apparently.”
“My sister? How could she be here?” The last he knew, Carissa was living a life of freedom and adventure traveling the world, planning never to return to Kiriath.
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