by David Keck
Durand swallowed against a sudden knot of dread. He could hardly see the way forward in the glare, but he straightened his back and walked through the jeers toward the duke.
Deorwen was there. Where she had come from, Durand did not know. She looked wildly at him and rounded on Abravanal. “You must not do this! He has been your man his whole life!”
Abravanal blinked his blue eyes, rigid. Where he stood by the wall, the crowd would be able to see him.
Durand’s tongue was thick in his throat. He wished they’d taken Deorwen below. She should not see.
“Morcar tried to kill us,” she persisted. “Tried to kill you. Your daughter. How can you take his word? Is this what you want?”
“When have we ever had what we want? When?” said Abravanal. The Herald looked on.
Stiff-necked, Coensar took his place in the blazing sunset at the duke’s side. The old priest joined them, looking foolish and shabby beside the stark Herald. “To be snatched by birds,” the priest was muttering. “It is a thing not to be believed.”
“Your Grace,” said Durand. “I understand.” And Deorwen gaped at him, knowing that nothing could be averted.
Coensar turned into the bloody light. “Peers. Atthians. Hear the pronouncement of your duke and liege lord under the Eye of Heaven!”
And there was Abravanal with the light gleaming in every spidery hair. “Sir Durand Col, son of Hroc. Champion of Gireth. Today, you must face your doom. We will pray for your soul.” The Herald would not look from Durand’s face.
The grindstone rattled to a halt. A guard took hold of Durand’s hands and he was brought, roughly, to a gap in the parapet and into the red glare. Someone had thrust a platform out over the wall, like hoardings in a time of siege. “You’d best go forward,” said the guard. “Out on our little scaffold. Best to go on your own two feet. Careful. It’s higher than you think.” The man’s breath was full of onions.
Deorwen could not rush to him. He could not call to her.
He took the one tall step up into the gap and walked upon the bending planks, twenty fathoms above the crowd, on a platform the size of a door. He caught his balance—no mean feat with his hands bound. The naked face of the wall and steep hillside below him blazed. Somewhere behind him, they were hustling the Sword of Judgment to Coensar’s hand. Durand could almost feel the razor edges free upon the air.
“You’ll have to kneel, sir,” the guard said in his ear. The rope tugged at his wrists as Durand dropped to his knees, in full view of the multitude. Once upon a time, Durand had stood before a throng with the Sword of Judgment in his hands. It was after Ferangore, when Moryn Mornaway faced Abravanal’s judgment. In Atthias, the killing stroke was a downward blow. He must bend. There would be no block. The scaffold creaked and flexed under his knees, little more than a gangplank.
Then Coensar was on the scaffold too, the whole thing groaning and struggling as though the two men were sharing a bed. Flashes of light played over the planks as Gunderic’s Sword caught the sunset.
“I do not want this,” said Coensar.
“Durand!” It was Deorwen’s voice.
She watched from the gap. Durand could not stand her there. She should not see. He could not endure it with her looking on. “Get her away from here,” Durand said.
“Aye. Yes.” He heard Deorwen curse them all, and the sound of her voice nearly got him crying.
Below, red faces stared up. The downward glance also showed Durand that his train of Lost men and women now waited for him in the shadows among the living, silent where the living roared. Soon, Durand knew, he must join them.
Coensar balanced on the rough tongue of wood.
“You’d best duck your head,” he said. Durand thought he heard the man swallow. He was breathing hard.
Durand imagined breaking free: sending Coensar toppling from the scaffold. Bolting back into the keep. He would find a horse. He pictured himself hauling up the gate and charging down into the woods. But the fantasy was like a bubble on a pond. There was no freedom.
He saw fierce Leovere. He saw Morcar jeering. The Eye of Heaven blazed over the forest. Men swung wineskins and the Lost slavered for the wine, crowding close even as Coensar loomed at Durand’s shoulder, Gunderic’s Sword in his hands. He would make the killing blow. Coensar would swing for all he was worth, hauling the blade down from the Heavens. It took great force to fell a man at a stroke.
Durand closed his eyes, thinking of Deorwen. Someone tried to fling a clod of earth, but it was a long throw from the skirt of that hill.
“Coensar,” called the duke, “it cannot be delayed any longer.” Durand glanced back for a moment, then settled himself. “Father, it is time,” Abravanal said, prompting the untidy priest.
The priest scrambled up into a gap in the parapet, craning his neck. “My son, your doom is upon you, as it must come to all. Ready yourself to stand before the Keeper of the Bright Gates and bow before the Throne of far Heaven.”
Durand bowed his head.
“May word of your deeds have reached the Halls of Heaven before you,” concluded the priest. “Proceed, Lord Coensar.”
“Yes, Father,” said Coensar.
“Hell. I am sorry,” he said, and he took a great gulp of air. Durand pictured Gunderic’s Sword flashing high in the sunset.
But Coensar was no headsman.
And Gunderic’s Sword was not Coensar’s blade.
The ancient weapon was an oversized thing, too long and too broad for a fighting man.
Over the dizzying thunder of his heart, Durand heard a splintered clang. Something hard clacked from his bent head, and a confusion of bright shapes flashed and fell. They tumbled from the scaffold in a welter of blood.
A hand caught his collar.
An instant later, he would have followed the blood into the crowd.
“Not now,” Coensar rasped.
Durand blinked with his nose suddenly against the rough planks and he could not understand.
Gunderic’s bright blade had shattered.
But why? The grindstone may have ruined the temper of the old blade. The point might have caught the parapet on Coensar’s backswing. Or a wild stroke might have caught the stone at the tail of its arc. Perhaps Coensar had deliberately smashed the thing, or it had broken over Durand’s stiff neck.
He would never know more of what had happened than he did at that moment. There was a flash, and no one saw clearly.
A dazed and dripping Durand felt a grubby scrabbling at his back. He heard a knife and felt the pop of the ropes at his wrist. The hasty blade snagged a crescent from his palm. “Not for them,” Coensar said. “Not for this!”
There were hundreds of wide eyes and gaping mouths.
“Get up, Durand,” said Coensar.
“Justice!” cried the men of Yrlac.
Coensar was shaking his head over the gulf. “Get off this accursed scaffold, Durand!”
“The sword…” said Abravanal. “The sword is shattered. What have you done, Coensar?”
Barely able to master his limbs, Durand climbed back over the battlements. The Herald of Errest stared down on him as he reached safety. Durand saw Deorwen, as shattered as the old blade.
Coensar stabbed his dagger back into its sheath, his lip twisted in a snarl, and strode out upon the scaffold. “That is all the justice they will get! Drop the gates and draw the bar!”
Durand could hear Leovere. “Coensar, you are bound by the laws of Errest! You cannot find for your man. Where were his oath-helpers? What could the man prove?”
Coensar thrust his hand toward Durand and the parapet. “The man’s bruises bear witness.”
“And what of Baradan? What of his blood?”
“And what of that shrine? And what of that mill?”
“We see how things stand! We see what our people mean to their duke. If we had forgotten in the past, we will not forget again! Tell the old man that he has held Yrlac too long! He is no part of it. He will never be. Before th
e peers of both our lands, I tell you that this injustice will end. No man of Gireth will hold the land of my fathers lest he bleeds for it.”
His allies roared.
Coensar stood on that narrow platform with the sunset blazing all around. “We will see who bleeds, Leovere!”
13
Kingdom of the Hornbearer
Before dawn, the castle was waking. Durand had spent an anxious night alone. He could not sleep. He could not hold still with the Lost all around. And he must have looked like another specter, stalking the halls in battered, bloody war gear. Of the living, no one but Ailric came near him, though the little keep was packed from cobbled yard to tower rooms with pages, knights, country damsels, and serving men. No one knew what to make of Gunderic’s Sword, a bungled death, and a sudden war.
In any case, with Leovere raging, the men of Gireth must get Abravanal out at once and ride hard for home. Unless Coensar was a very great fool, he would run the cavalcade north too fast for Leovere to gather forces. Durand paced a back room as Ailric packed. His hand ached. His head throbbed. And bruises covered his body like spots on a leopard’s pelt. But he would be ready for whatever Leovere planned.
Deorwen appeared in the chamber door.
Durand winced. “Coensar will have us leaving at once. Try to keep Leovere off balance if he’s anything clever in mind.”
“Durand,” said Deorwen. A pointed glance sent Ailric bowing out of the room, and she closed the door neatly behind him.
“Deorwen. I am sorry.” Why did he assume that she was coming to talk about travel arrangements?
“You’re not coming with us.”
Durand started. He spread his hands. “But I am the Duke’s Champion. I’ve sworn to watch over his—”
“Coensar has summoned every liegeman in Fellwood. They are saying that Leovere cannot muster so many this side of Pennons Gate.”
“But I’ve—”
She took a half-step forward, her eyes glinting in the gloom. “For now you are Champion, Durand. But you will not be accompanying the duke back into Gireth.” Durand was outcast. Exiled. Banished from court. From everything he knew.
“And he has sent you to tell me?” Durand said.
“I came for Coensar. He has been tearing his hair. There will be fire and blood across Gireth despite ten years trying to make a peace.”
“I did not set out to kill Baradan!”
Though Durand could hardly contain his frustration, Deorwen came nearer. Did she know he couldn’t think with her so near?
“Morcar knew what you would do, that you couldn’t stay your hand when his men goaded you. I am not sure they meant to lose Baradan, but now Morcar’s lot have their way. There can be no peace between Leovere and the duke.”
Durand shook his head. He felt heavy. It was impossible.
“Durand, it nearly killed me to watch you on that scaffold, but I do not know what to think of us any longer. What have we become after so long? It is all scars around us, I think. All guilt and grief. But I could have killed you myself when you had Coensar take me away. I am so tired. All these years in that house of sorrows. Nothing but memories. I have sent a thousand Lost souls to their rest in that old city. Night after night. But still I am haunted. They beseech me in my dreams, even here.”
“I know something about that,” Durand said.
“Durand. You should be dead.” He could almost see the execution in her eyes. “Many times over.”
He did not want to say good-bye to her.
Very nearly, she grabbed hold of him, such a fool was he. There were tears in her eyes—in his eyes too.
“You can get free, Durand. Find another life.”
“But what am I now? What am I to do?” They were words he should not have uttered.
“I do not know about tomorrow, but today there is something. Here.” She pulled away, and shoved the door a fraction. Beyond her, Durand saw old Berchard standing with Ailric.
She closed the door again, adding, “Berchard is another exile. He came to petition the duke for aid. But do you remember how he ended up in the Marches, Durand? After fighting for Lamoric and Coensar and Abravanal, he came away an old man with nothing.”
“Aye. It was sad.” The man deserved more.
“He had something here in Fellwood, and now that too is taken from him. He came to Abravanal to ask the duke to intercede.” Begging favors from a man he’d insulted. “Berchard is not well, I think. You will have noticed that his eyesight has failed him.”
Durand blinked. This was new, but maybe there had been signs that a wiser man might have noted. “He has been leaning on my man, Ailric. I thought he was hard of hearing, maybe.”
She smiled gently. “He might be both.”
“And Abravanal will not be interceding for the old man.” Not with Leovere hard on his heels and war coming.
“He has nothing left, Durand. He came to the Lindenhall with a shield-bearer, but even his man has joined the duke’s service for the journey back to Acconel. Do you see?
“There may be something you can do. You are Champion of Gireth, still.”
“Until they think to take it.”
“Until they think to take it, yes. But you have been given a reprieve, and the world is thick with omens, a chance at another way. I am tired of Abravanal’s court. These people. Gireth. Yrlac. Acconel. All of it. But I won’t leave the girl. I cannot. But perhaps you can step free of it all, Durand. Maybe it is time to bid farewell.”
She seized him in a fierce embrace, clinging despite the stains and armor. He never remembered how small she really was.
“I will do it,” he said. “Of course I will. I have been blind.”
* * *
COENSAR’S CAVALCADE WAS leaving. Durand clapped his eye to an arrow loop and watched as the column lumbered from the Lindenhall. Carts and warhorses wallowed over the churned turf of the lists, setting their misty course for the track that led toward the slate-blue face of the Blackroots. Before he noticed, Ailric, Berchard, and Heremund had joined him. Durand kept his eyes fixed on the duke’s people. Almora glanced backward, perhaps to see him at his peephole, dwindling with distance. Coensar, once, twisted in his saddle as if he felt Durand’s stare needling his spine. Without him, they rode into the half-charted wilds.
“Durand Col, there’s men watching the Lindenhall,” Heremund said.
“Men?” said Durand.
Heremund jostled into the arrow loop for a squint and pointed at the forest verges with one blunt finger. “There. There. There.” There were shapes in the trees. Durand saw a man with curling copper hair.
“Not the best choice for a spy, red hair,” said Durand.
“Not sure they care who knows.”
“Coen knows?” Durand said.
“Aye. Coen knows. But I’d wager they’ll be looking for you. Your friend Morcar has put up some land as a sort of reward. It’s enough to set up ten men happily enough, I think.”
Berchard smiled, not bothering to crowd to the bit of light and breeze with the others. “Has he? Ten men, you say? That might suit me. Is there a comfortable hall for the lord of the manor, did you say, Heremund?”
“Don’t be clever, Berchard. It seems I stung Morcar a bit,” said Durand.
“It’s Baradan’s land, I gather,” said Heremund. “I’m afraid you put an end to the line of Baradan with that hedge chopper.”
Durand glanced at the Yrlaci men in the trees, thinking that he should ride out and give the devils a chance at him.
“Three men watching the castle. Every one watching for us.”
“For you,” said Berchard.
“For now they’ll be busy counting heads, making sure Leovere’s got no surprises if he wants to take the duke on the road. After that, they’ll look after themselves and come looking for you.”
“Let Leovere count. His men can count off every nag and shield-bearer. It won’t do him any good. He can’t take Coen on the road.”
As he spoke, h
owever, another thought occurred to him. “At this moment, Leovere’s men have got their eyes on Coensar’s column.”
“Every man, I’d wager,” said Heremund. “What are you thinking?”
At that moment, one of the castle’s men was rushing past. It was the fellow who had helped Durand out onto the scaffold. “Here,” said Durand.
Blind Berchard did better, catching the man by the arm and bringing him up with a jerk. “Here, friend. Is there a sally port? A door somewhere? Something we could get a horse through?”
The man hesitated a moment, astonished. Maybe leery of Durand’s temper. “Aye, Lordship. There is, Lordship. Would you care to see it, maybe?”
The three men were smiling. “Aye,” said Durand. “We would.”
And before Coensar could cram the rest of his column through the front door, Durand’s band had tumbled out the back. Jouncing with loose gear in their hands, they hared off into the forest and were soon a league from the pretty Lindenhall and all its spies and tournament grounds.
* * *
THEY LED THEIR horses between giant trees, knowing that even one glimpse from the men at the Lindenhall might have put fifty soldiers on their trail. They struck thickets of thorn and leathery acres of open ground without warning, and listened hard, cringing at the uncanny echoes of every hoofbeat and rattle of tack under the green vaults. Sometimes they were certain they heard others on the move, beyond the gray trunks.
Sooner or later, someone must know they’d gone. Soon or later, someone would come looking.
Finally, without a word, the four men swung themselves into their saddles.
At first, they rode south into the forest wastes to get clear of the Lindenhall, then they swung west and came upon a luminous region where clouds of bluebells billowed over the forest floor. Even Berchard’s jaw dropped as they plodded through the lavender mists.
“So, what is the story?” said Heremund. “I’d like to know why I’m riding into the West Marches.”
“Aye, well,” said Berchard, “Abravanal left me landless in Yrlac. He had his own problems, I suppose. Too much on his mind to make sure his loyal men didn’t starve on the road.”