by David Keck
The War Host of Gireth crammed the streets of West Bridge village, waiting to march. Riders pelted up and down the island. Behind them, the Eye of Heaven blazed among the battlements of Acconel.
Everything was prepared. All they required was the duke himself. They would cross into Yrlac’s dukedom and begin the hunt for Lord Leovere. The best part of a thousand knights jostled at the bridgehead, every man with an eye on Durand, Alret of Garelyn, Moryn of Mornaway, and the other commanders on the high deck of the bridge. Each fighting man watched for the order to ride, but the host could not move without the duke, their master.
It had been an hour since Durand sent word to Gunderic’s Tower that the host was waiting.
All of this would have been hard enough on the nerves of the fighting men, but, to add to their troubles, something had gone wrong with the river they were meant to cross. Under the West Bridge, the Banderol had ebbed until only the dregs of it now gleamed in its muddy bed. Broken things—bones, barrels, and boats—jutted like the contents of an opened grave.
Durand tried not to think. His head was full of Leovere—bolting through Yrlac, opening the distance, banging on the gates of his allies, and setting the countryside alight. This he understood; he had Coensar scouting the Yrlaci side. What the river portended, however, he could not guess, and this too crowded his mind.
Worse still, he heard voices. Somewhere among the rooftops of West Bridge, the Rooks were watching. From his place on the bridge before the entire army, he dared not crane his neck to find them.
“He best get a move on, hadn’t he, brother?”
“I should think so.”
Durand mashed his face in his palms.
“The thralls, they have been days in Errest now.”
“It will not be as it was with us. A few shrines down. A few sanctuaries aflame.”
“Or befouled.”
“The maragrim tear up all as they go. And now there is no king.”
“And no priests.”
“The priests are occupied, brother, but I take your meaning.”
“What a home they will make of Yrlac!”
“The maragrim? Yes. But it will never be enough for them. It will be, what do you call it?”
“A beachhead, perhaps?”
“And, with the wards unknotted and gone, how many of the Banished will we find, do you think?”
“Under every rock, I’m sure. Bugganes. All sorts of elder spirits. Most inconvenient.”
“This Leovere fellow is very brave.”
The lanky duke of Garelyn favored Durand with a grin from under his elaborate mustaches. He’d loaned Durand a proper horse and was taking a perverse pleasure in Durand’s sudden elevation. “You must relish this, Your Grace.” He laughed and waved a rough salute to his own banners.
Durand straightened, surveying the hundreds of knights from Gireth and Yrlac. It was all he could do not to twitch. He wished he had an archer and a better idea of where the Rooks were hidden.
Garelyn laughed again. “You are no better than Mornaway, here. As grim as any two devils this side of the grave, you look.”
Mornaway hardly raised an eyebrow. “You will have to be jolly for the lot of us. Leovere and his Fellwood friends distract me.”
“A fighting man likes to think his lord his keen,” said Garelyn.
Mornaway wriggled his fingers deeper into a black gauntlet. “Perhaps they will be distracted by the river,” he said.
Just then, shouts arose from the army. There had been many messengers and latecomers, and each time, Durand expected to see the duke. This time the excitement came from sentries on the Yrlaci side of the bridge: Coensar was galloping into the caravan yard on the far bank. He passed the tollhouse with his stallion stepping high.
At least now there might be news.
The steward shouted his greetings, riding into the circle of mounted captains.
“Where is he?” said Durand. “Have our riders caught sight of him?”
Coensar glanced at the mudflat under the bridge. “First, we’ve seen no sign of the thralls yet, not on the Yrlac side. And there are knights heading west. Every man-at-arms for ten leagues is either with us or riding west.” West was where they had chased Duke Radomor. West was the seat of the dukes of Yrlac.
“The Ferangore road?” said Durand, aware that the old name conjured black memories for them both.
“I’d wager it’s Ferangore he’s bound for, aye.”
They had all fought in the siege at Ferangore. The fires. The tiered streets. Radomor and the Rooks and the blood.
“What men did Sir Kieren leave in Ferangore?”
“Not many, I think. Not men enough to deal with a revolt. Maybe Kieren’s garrison can hold the walls a few hours. We might get Leovere in the field. He is still gathering his forces and that will slow him down.” Durand remembered the dead in those streets. He remembered Lamoric and damned Beowlin.
“Time to go, I think,” added Coensar.
“We have been waiting on His Grace,” said Mornaway. “Sir Kieren means to bring them.”
“We cannot wait long,” said Coensar.
They were turning to Durand, looking for his word on the matter, when there came a clatter from the village. He heard a Rook calling, “Haw! Haw!”
“Here now,” said Garelyn. “Here will be tidings of Abravanal, finally.”
But it was not Kieren or Abravanal or any of the knights from the city; instead, this new commotion had arisen among the banners of Swanskin Down and, in a few moments, Baron Vadir himself had broken from his people and was riding for the bridge.
The baron could scarcely get a word out. “A rider,” he said, without preamble. “One of the garrison at Wrothsilver. He says the thralls have gathered below the citadel. He cannot find words to describe what he’s seen.” The man would have left the hill town well before dawn.
“Then they have come,” said Durand. He fixed his gaze up the muddy, half-choked Banderol. Wrothsilver was up that river.
“My castellan sent the messenger when they sighted the thralls. Hundreds or more, but dawn might have caught them. Duke Durand, you were there. You know how many shelter within those walls. We might still save Wrothsilver. A giant walks among them.”
Vadir’s horse tossed its head, half-wild. Every horse on the bridge looked to have been spooked by the baron’s agitation.
“It’ll be the Hornbearer,” said Durand.
“We must turn from these fools in Yrlac and ride for Wrothsilver. We are men of Gireth. These are our people!”
But they could not let Leovere loose on Yrlac, and, for a moment, not a man knew what to say.
Even that moment’s hesitation was enough to enrage Vadir, and the man’s horse seemed just as wild.
“I will put it to Duke Abravanal, gentlemen! I will put it to the duke and we shall learn where our duty lies!”
The baron made to ride, but his mount fought him. It stamped with darting eyes. And then, for a moment, every man on the bridge was fighting to keep his mount under him. But it was not Vadir who had put such fear into the horses.
There was a rumble upriver, but none could see a storm cloud in that southern sky. Then the bridge trembled beneath Durand and the captains.
And into the channel of the Banderol rushed a torrent of water higher than city walls. The wave bowled down the muddy channel, heaving with spray and uprooted trees. It came on as fast as a charging battalion.
The West Bridge would be swept away.
“Ride!” Durand yelled, cleverly. But Vadir and he were last, and the flood was already upon them before they could reach the bridgehead. The wall of water exploded against the bridge in geysers twenty fathoms tall, blasting Durand from his horse’s back and flinging him, breathless, against the balusters of the bridge rail. Vadir careered into the rail beside him and the two men fought against the water, pinned like fish in the teeth of a rake. Full-grown trees cartwheeled over their heads.
Pier after pier of the old
bridge was beaten into the river while the deck peeled up and vanished into the flying spray. Durand got hold of Vadir’s arm and roared: “Come! It must be now.” He prized himself off the balusters and fought onward with the surging water tearing at his legs, battering him into the rail, flinging stones and trees past his head until finally the torrent ripped away even the last pier below the deck.
But Durand had reached the bridgehead.
He hauled Vadir from the last clutching waves. And, staggering where great gobbets of the bank were falling away, Durand understood where the river had been all that morning.
“This was the Hornbearer. Vadir, it wasn’t Wrothsilver he was after. It was that bridge of yours.” The long white bridge with many spans. The maragrim would have heaped cartloads of rubble against it. “They’ve crossed into Yrlac. Leovere’s called them. His horn. And now they’ve come.”
The two men staggered back as more of the bank slumped into the water. Durand had Vadir’s arm. Coensar and the others tried to get them to safety.
“Your city’s safe, Vadir. Or a ruin, maybe. Heaven help us. But it’s done. There’s no use for an army in Gireth. Not anymore. But these things. We cannot let them loose in Errest. We must get Leovere.”
The flood was already subsiding.
Durand released the baron’s arm. “When Duke Abravanal arrives, you may say what you will, but I will not let Leovere have his way.”
In moments, there was nothing left of the bridge but a few broken stumps, with the bridgehead thrust out like a step to nowhere. The shocked and half-scattered host now surrounded Durand Col. He had survived the cataract. He had hauled a man from the water, and now he saw something new in their looks.
“What must we do now?” said Vadir.
It was then, of course, that word reached them from the city.
Four grave riders joined the company at the bridge. Here, at long last, were Almora, Deorwen, Kieren, and Ailric.
Durand stood, dripping at the bridgehead with his sword trailing in the mud as old Kieren bowed but said nothing. The duke was not with them.
“What has happened?” Durand said.
It was Kieren who, eventually, raised his chin and answered. “Duke Durand. His Grace, Abravanal, Duke of Gireth, is dead.”
An invocation murmured through the host.
“In his sleep,” said Kieren. “As I sat outside the door.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Peacefully. He was an old man. The fire, I guess. And the damned Council. They were enough.” He faltered into silence.
Abravanal was gone. But there they were, all of them, ready to fight for him.
To Durand, Kieren said, “We’ve been speaking. Lady Almora will not let the Hornbearer run loose in Errest the Old. She won’t leave Lord Leovere free to fill the kingdom with nightmares. It’s what she said.”
Kieren stood in his stirrups.
“Men of Gireth, you have heard that Duke Abravanal has left us, but you must know that his heir is with us now.” Kieren stretched his arm toward the small, sad girl on her white palfrey; both held very still. “Lady Almora would have me tell you that she means to ride in her father’s place. That she will ride with you till Leovere of Penseval is hanged or brought to heel. That she has her father’s sword.” Almora hauled the heavy scabbard from under her riding mantle and held it over her head. Durand could hear the broken shards of the old blade rattling in the scabbard. The hilt would fall out.
Deorwen met Durand’s gaze; he guessed that she’d had something to say about this. She might have lost an argument.
Gradually, as the old sword trembled before the host, the rumble of approval shivered through the knights of Gireth. Blades flashed in the Eye of Heaven, and the men shouted their defiance of Leovere and their pride at Lady Almora.
“Now,” Sir Kieren said. “There is more than one bridge to Yrlac!”
And more quietly: “I hope.”
* * *
EAGERLY, THE HOST set off down the spine of Acconel’s island, this time bound for the Duke’s Bridge by the shore of Silvermere. Banner knights offered Durand his pick of horses as he joined the march, and in the giddy tumult that followed, Kieren got close.
“An hour ago, I’d have guessed we were all as dead as poor Abravanal,” said Kieren. Almora sat her palfrey a dozen paces ahead, and there were fierce smiles all around her. Without her, the host would have crumbled.
Lady Deorwen trailed behind. Her brother tried to speak with her, but she was having none of it.
“Deorwen looks none too pleased,” said Durand.
“No,” said Kieren. “She’s not. But it’s the only way. The girl saw it, and Deorwen had nothing to say. She’s no fool.”
“Who will watch Acconel?”
“You may safely leave the old town in my stewardship. I’ll ride back as soon as I’m able.” The little man glanced about, making sure there was no one near enough to hear him. “But before I go, I’m telling them a story. I mean to pass the word to every banner knight quick as I can.” He pointed to the scabbard at Almora’s saddle. “‘The old sword broke before it would cut his neck,’ I’ll say. Which is true. I’ll tell them that there’s doom in Gunderic’s blade. The sword of dukes since Gunderic and the Cradle, and there you were on the block in Fellwood, ready for the chop, and that blade of two thousand winters smashed to flinders before it would shed a drop of your blood.”
“There was no block,” said Durand.
“Or I’ll tell them Coensar’d been drinking and he clipped the wall by your ear—I couldn’t see any better than you could. Didn’t want to, if I’m honest. We need the host to hold, Durand. It’s you who’s got Yrlac by gift. That’s clear with the Council all but sealing it when they left without a word. But who is duke of Gireth, eh? Almora is not yet of age to inherit. She would be a ward of the crown if not for two things.”
Just then an exuberant Garelyn jostled close. He thrust a lance in the air. “Fine girl there. A lucky man!” Durand smiled and nodded, taking a few openhanded blows to the shoulder before he managed to get back to Kieren once more.
“You see?” said Kieren.
“Two things you said,” Durand prompted. “There’s no king is one.”
“Aye, and the old man betrothed the girl to you, Durand. With oaths and witnesses aplenty, and she’s agreed as well! So you’re her husband, and Gireth her dower lands. It’ll hold the men. That, and they’re boiling about Leovere. But you’ll need the girl with you. Blood is blood and you are not wedded, but it will be enough for now. Your Grace.” He grinned at the jostling crowd. “Look at them. We’ve got them.”
Durand straightened in his saddle.
* * *
THREE GREAT TREES struggled against the Duke’s Bridge, caught in the river, but the span held firm.
Durand rode with Almora and the rest of the commanders in the main body of the column. Coensar, riding at the head of the vanguard, cut his horse from the throng and gave Durand a look.
Durand allowed himself a grim smile. “Forward!” he called. “At them—we’ve given Leovere time enough.” Durand would lead the main battalion himself.
Kieren, who’d been true to his word and had darted from commander to commander all through the host, trotted to Durand’s side. He had a party in tow, but Durand did not spare the time to look. “A short speech, that,” said Kieren. “Oredgar would have taken that chance to bless the host, or call down the Powers of Heaven with dread invocations.”
Now, though, they would not find a single priest until the prince had spent his three days under stone. It seemed a tenuous way to face the maragrim. Their forbearers would have brought priests and patriarchs in plenty, Durand was certain.
“Each man will say his own words,” he said.
“Kieren, old boy, that’s Durand, isn’t it?”
For the first time, Durand took note of the two riders straggling along behind Kieren. One was Berchard. The other was Heremund, under a heap of rugs. Somewhere they’d found a donkey.
“Maybe, together, we can talk him out of it,” said Berchard. “I’ve had no luck on my own. He’s dragged me up and down the island.” The man squinted. “We’re back by the Mere again, are we not?”
Kieren’s mustache twitched. “My intention is to take you back, both of you. You and Heremund are more than welcome to stay with us old soldiers in Gunderic’s Tower.”
Every eye turned to Heremund, but, for once, the man kept his mouth shut.
“It’s no good, Sir Kieren. In addition to being cold as a tomb, he’s come over all closed-mouth and stubborn. Truculent, you might call him.”
“Shut up, Berchard,” Heremund said from his pile of blankets.
“Listen, Heremund Crookshanks, an army on the march is no place for a bowlegged old man on a damn donkey,” said Kieren. “I will not chance it.”
The skald clutched his blankets tighter.
Durand would not joke with the skald. “I do not know your mind, Heremund, but you know what we do. We must set a hard pace and there is no rest at the end of the ride.”
Berchard could not abide it. “On my oath, Heremund the skald, I’ve saved your life and I won’t have you cast it away so soon! If you go, I’ll go with you and how’s that? It nearly killed me, fishing you from that damned harbor, but there I was, the only other man alive knowing you’d vanished. I tell you, on my oath: If you go I’ll follow.”
“Stay,” said Heremund. “I can’t. Don’t be a fool.”
“I’ll not save your life and have you lose it the next day. Who will lend me a horse? And I’ll need a byrnie, at least.” Berchard turned his face questioningly.
“Now, here,” Kieren began.
The vanguard was across, and the twenty squadrons of the main battalion waited on Durand’s word. A few hundred men watched Durand. The column could not be allowed to break up.
“Get him a horse,” said Durand.
And, in moments, the blind knight had his hands on a saddle and was climbing aboard.
“Heremund?” said Berchard, “you are dog-sick and like to die. And you’ve more sense.”
“Get down. Go with Kieren,” said the skald. “They’ll need more than muscle and iron.”
But Berchard, obstinate, sat sightless on one of Garelyn’s horses.