by John Marco
“Stop looking around, Will,” said Akeela. “The men will see you’re frightened.”
“I’m not frightened,” growled Trager. “Just wary.”
“Don’t be. Daralor will meet us out in the open, proudly and stupidly.” He glanced over to his left, where Lieutenant Leal was riding behind Colonel Tark, Trager’s second-in-command. “Leal, are you afraid? Or do you trust me?”
Leal hesitated before answering. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, my lord.”
Trager laughed. “Ha! You hear that? He’s watched you play crusade.”
“No faith,” sighed Akeela. “But you’ll see. Just keep your eyes forward.”
But the seasoned companies Trager had chosen were too convinced of an ambush to relax. As the men and horses weaved through the fog, they kept a wary watch on the trees. The stray sounds of the surrounding forests made the ears of the horses twitch. Akeela took it all in stride. He knew that Prince Daralor wouldn’t run and hide, but he wouldn’t ambush them, either. There would be a battle, very soon. Oddly, Akeela didn’t mind. Trager had honed his men to a razor’s sharpness; there was simply no way the Nithins could best them. That they were foolish enough to try simply wasn’t Akeela’s fault, and so he felt no remorse.
A few minutes later, the ground flattened into a wide field. The trees on either side thinned, and the morning mist parted in a breeze, revealing a line of mounted silhouettes in the distance.
“There,” pronounced Akeela. He stopped his horse and let the various companies slowly fall in behind him. Trager peered through the fog at the stand of knights. It was hard to make out their numbers, but they could see at least a hundred men in the front rank, all mounted and armed with lances.
“You were right,” said the general, sounding relieved. A small smile crept onto his face. “They’ve come to face us.”
“They will try again to talk before fighting,” Akeela predicted. “Bring up some bowmen.”
Trager passed the order down to Colonel Tark, who called for archers. Two men quickly dismounted and came to stand beside Akeela. They had bows in their hands and quivers on their backs. Without being asked they nocked arrows in their bowstrings.
“Don’t fire unless I order it,” Akeela ordered.
The men nodded and kept their arrows pointed downward. Trager pulled his horse a little closer to Akeela’s, waiting for the inevitable heralds to arrive. Next to them, Lieutenant Leal shifted uneasily in his saddle. Colonel Tark was still as stone. Soon a figure broke from the fog, riding out of the ranks. Another followed him, bearing the standard of Nith. The herald rode purposefully forward, the feathered comb of his helmet bouncing in the breeze. He wore Nithin armor and a gold breastplate that reminded Akeela of Lukien’s. The standard bearer rode a full pace behind him. Akeela’s army closed ranks as the herald approached, the noise of their movements echoing through the morning like the rolling surf. In the distance and obscured by fog, Prince Daralor sat defiantly atop his white stallion, easily recognizable in his splendid cape and silver armor. When the herald was only five yards away, he removed his helmet and placed it in the crux of his arm. Carefully he surveyed the army, coming to a slow stop before Akeela. The archers raised their bows and drew back their strings, taking aim. Remarkably, the herald barely glanced at them.
“On behalf of Prince Daralor of Nith, sovereign lord and protector of this valley, I come to you, King Akeela,” declared the man. His ruddy face was resolute as he delivered his proclamation. “The prince humbly asks that you turn and head back, or face the peril of his rage.”
Akeela glanced toward Daralor’s troops. The morning sun was burning off the haze now, bringing them into better focus. It was quickly clear to Akeela that their numbers, though formidable, were no match for his own.
“Your prince has seen our army,” said Akeela, “just as we now see his own. You are no match for us. You should yield.”
“Prince Daralor requests you reconsider, Your Grace. This is sovereign land, fought and bled for. He is prepared to battle for it.”
“So it seems,” said Akeela. “And you, herald? Are you prepared to die as well?”
Without hesitation the herald said, “I am.”
“That is well, because you’re standing in my way. By delaying me, you are protecting my greatest enemy.”
With a mere nod Akeela gave the order. The archers loosed, sending their shafts whistling forward. One caught the herald in the throat, slicing through his windpipe and coming out the other side. The other found the standard bearer, puncturing his helmet and cracking his skull. Both men teetered in stunned silence. The herald gasped for air, then dropped from his horse. The standard bearer dropped soon after, his flag falling like a tree. Across the field a gasp rose from the Nithin ranks, followed by a chorus of cries. Now there was no turning back, and Akeela knew it. He turned to Trager.
“Attack.”
Trager drew his blade and went to work, calling to his waiting men. It would be the Royal Chargers who would do the bulk of the work and send Akeela’s terrible message. Swords sprang from scabbards and horses churned the earth, and all around the world erupted in noise. Colonel Tark galloped forward, the first to follow Trager into the melee. With them went their seasoned company, bent on cutting a path to Ganjor.
Safe in the fog atop his white stallion, Prince Daralor of Nith watched in shock and horror as his heralds were murdered. His first emotion was disbelief, but watching the flag of his homeland totter snapped reality into focus. A great, angry cry went up from his men. Across the field, he saw King Akeela give the order to attack. General Trager raised his sword and rallied his armored cavalry. In a moment they were charging.
Daralor’s men looked to him for orders. His mind roiled in rage. He took his own sword from its scabbard and raised it high above his head, crying, “Charge!”
His lancers roared, rushing forward with their weapons. At their lead rode Daralor, his stallion tearing up the earth. Ahead came a wall of silver steel and horse muscle, the cream of Liiria, swords high, bodies bent behind ornate shields. Daralor knew his chances were hopeless, and he cursed himself for his many miscalculations. It was said in Nith that Akeela was mad, and now he knew the truth of it. But there was one slim hope to save the day . . . if he could slay Akeela.
Daralor’s knights met the Liirians. Around him the air exploded as lances and shields. His charging lancers slammed into the rushing Liirians, sending some sprawling. But most met the clash easily, parrying the lances with expert speed and countering with slashing swords. Daralor looked wildly about the melee, finding a target. An on-rushing Liirian raised his sword, hacking down toward Daralor’s head. Easily parried, the blow glanced off the prince’s blade. Daralor countered, slicing his sword in a low arc and connecting with the man’s midsection. Wounded, the man doubled to favor his damaged armor, bringing up his sword too late. Daralor’s blade found his neck, cleaving through his gorget. The severed head spun through the air as the body tumbled from the horse. All around Daralor the battle raged. He was in the thick of it now, with his men badly outnumbered. Waves of Liirian cavalry flooded the field. In the distance, King Akeela sat upon his horse, watching the misery from the fog. Daralor gritted his teeth and urged his horse forward. If he could reach Akeela, he could end it. He slashed his way through the ranks of knights, taking the best of the Liirian blades. In the eight years since winning Nith’s freedom, his renown with a sword hadn’t diminished, and seeing his skill rallied his men. They grouped around him, fighting back the hordes of Chargers as they inched across the field toward Akeela. The king himself was not unprotected. There were men around him still, and General Trager no doubt nearby. But to take him down was the surest way to end things, so Daralor plunged ahead.
Now there were half a dozen men with him, slicing a bloody path through their foes. Daralor’s horse snorted and reared, battling the press of men and beasts. Screams and the sounds of combat filled the air. Liirian archers opened fire. Next to
Daralor, the head of a companion shattered as an arrow found its mark. Daralor continued on, waving his sword like a flag.
“Follow me!” he ordered his band. “To Akeela!”
More men rushed at them, fresh troops from Akeela’s side. Daralor could see General Trager now, himself engaged in battle. The general’s sword was everywhere at once; Daralor had never seen such ferocious speed. Akeela’s face grew troubled as inch by inch Daralor drew closer. A Charger raced toward him, swinging a flail. Daralor ducked the weapon and plunged his sword into the man’s breast. Another came and then another, and Daralor dispatched them easily. A mad frenzy was on him now. But he knew his men were losing the fight. One by one they fell to Liiria’s numerous blades.
“Onward!” he roared, mustering his men. A handful heeded the call, joining his assault. Beneath him his horse bucked as it plowed through Liirian swords. They were mere yards from Akeela now. Daralor could see the king’s surprised grimace. Finally, hope showed its elusive face. Daralor battled forward, four men at his side. General Trager glimpsed his approach and fought harder to put down his opponents. Blood and steel blinded Daralor. A young knight, who had long been at Akeela’s side, finally sprang forward. The prince let out a wrathful cry. Sword to sword, they battled before Akeela. Daralor realized dreadfully that the men he’d been leading were already gone, cut down by the overwhelming number of Liirians. The young knight protecting Akeela was skilled and fresh, and Daralor struggled to parry his blows. Akeela himself sat alone on his horse, not even drawing his sword. There were still endless ranks of men behind him, waiting for his orders. His confidence enraged Daralor.
“I’ll kill you!” he bellowed.
A second later, he threaded his blade through the knight’s defense and punctured his heart. The man fell from his horse, revealing Akeela’s angry face behind him. Finally, the king drew his blade. He looked about to charge when another wave of Chargers raced forward, this time led by Trager. The general let out terrible cry and an explosive flurry of blows, driving Daralor back into a waiting circle of Liirian blades.
“No!” bellowed Akeela. “Don’t kill him!”
Trager pressed his attack, raining blow after blow down on Daralor’s weakening sword. The others encircling him kept back, letting them duel. There was no escape for Daralor now. He had become the general’s sport.
“Damn you!” he hissed, sweat flying from his brow.
“Surrender!” cried Trager. His face reddened with effort as he loosed his attack. The archers at Akeela’s side held their bows at the ready. Remarkably, they didn’t fire, waiting for orders like dutiful dogs. Daralor desperately dodged Trager’s attacks. Exhausted, his sword dipped a moment too soon, letting Trager’s blade slip down his gauntlet. A fiery pain shot through his hand. Daralor dropped his sword in horror as two fingers flew through the air. The flat of Trager’s sword slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. The force of the fall rattled his skull. When he finally looked up, his horse was gone and Trager was floating over him. The general’s fellow horsemen closed around him like a noose.
“Now,” said Trager, pointing his blade down at Daralor’s throat. “Will you surrender?”
Exhausted, his hand bleeding and screaming with pain, Daralor could barely find his voice. “Piss on you,” he croaked.
Trager trembled in rage. Daralor was sure he would die. But the general’s sword didn’t move. Instead, Akeela’s voice drifted over his shoulder.
“Leave him,” ordered the king. The circle of knights parted as he trotted into their circle. As the battle raged on just yards away, Akeela looked down at Daralor, shaking his head. There was no glee in his eyes, only sadness. “You are a fool, Prince Daralor.”
Daralor got unsteadily to his feet, teetering with blurred vision as he stood to face Akeela. “Kill me, butcher,” he said. “Give me the dignity of death, at least.”
“I don’t want to kill you, Daralor,” said Akeela. “I’ve never wanted to kill you, or your men. But you’ve given me no choice. Do you not see that? Did I not tell you how important my mission is?”
“Madness,” gasped Daralor. “This is nothing but madness.”
King Akeela shook his head and got down from his horse. He looked around the battlefield, and when his eyes came to the young knight who’d been protecting him, he let out a deep sigh. “Such a good man,” he whispered. Then he searched the ground near Daralor’s feet, where blood still spilled from his wounded hand. There in the dirt were Daralor’s fingers, still encased in the metal of his gauntlet. Akeela stooped down and, to Daralor’s horror, popped the fingers from their metal casings. The first one he dropped to the ground without interest. But he smiled at the second one, happily plucking a diamond ring from it. The mockery of the gesture sickened Daralor.
“All this for a diamond?” he asked. “Great Fate, was it worth it?”
Akeela looked hurt by the question. “The diamond is yours, Daralor,” he said. “As is Nith.”
He held out the ring. Daralor looked at him, stunned. Sticking his ruined right hand beneath his armpit, the prince reached out and let Akeela drop the ring into his left hand.
“I don’t want your diamonds, Daralor, and I don’t want your country,” said Akeela. “All I want is to find the man that killed my wife.” He turned to Trager. “Take him, General, but don’t harm him.”
Daralor shook off his surprise. “No! Kill me, you bastard! I demand it!”
“Daralor, look out onto the field,” said Akeela.
Daralor looked. Past the horses and men he could see the last of his own knights fleeing the field. Bodies lay everywhere. Hot blood bubbled on the earth.
“There’s been enough death for you,” said Akeela. “And a good man shouldn’t want to die so easily.”
The words shocked Daralor. “How can you do this?” he asked. “How can you let me live after all you’ve done?”
“I did what I had to do, Daralor, nothing more. You tried to stop me, I made my point. Now we are finished.”
“So?” spat the prince. “What will you do with me?”
Akeela climbed onto his horse. “After we tend our wounded and rest, we ride again for Ganjor. You’ll come with us. Once we reach the border, you’ll be freed.” Again he turned to Trager. “Take care of his hand. And make sure nothing happens to him.”
General Trager nodded. Then he and his men dismounted, beginning the dirty work of separating the injured from the dead. Daralor was speechless. He let the Liirians strip the dagger from his belt. An old captain began inspecting his hand. Trager walked casually into the battlefield, calling to his men to break off their chase.
And through it all Akeela sat upon his horse, untouched by the battle, silent and imperious.
45
Two days after arriving in Jador, Gilwyn and his companions were still waiting for Kadar. After their first meeting with the kahan, they were given a room to share in his palace, a ground floor chamber that was comfortable, clean, and unguarded by Kadar’s black-robed sentries. But Kadar himself was nowhere to be seen. He had simply told his guests that he would call for them when he was ready. In the meantime, they were to wait and to rest. Food and clean linens were brought to them, and fresh water scented with roses to clean themselves was constantly replenished in their washbasin. The weather outside their room’s single window never changed; the sky was perfectly blue, and the heat remained unbearable. Gilwyn had spent the first day in and around the chamber with Lukien and Baron Glass, sure that the kahan would want to speak with them soon. But Kadar had never come, and as the day slipped into night Lukien began to wonder what was taking Kadar so long.
“He’ll understand when he sees Akeela’s army,” Lukien had predicted sourly. Baron Glass had only sighed and nodded. Of the two, the old baron was far more patient, but Gilwyn knew his silence belied his own anxiety. Since leaving Norvor, Baron Glass almost never spoke of his troubles with Jazana Carr. Still, Gilwyn could tell he was troubled and worried
about his family in Koth, a family he hadn’t seen in many years.
By the second day, Gilwyn had decided to explore the palace. It was, he soon discovered, a remarkable structure, much more beautiful than Lionkeep and without its cold stone and decay. Kadar’s palace was a golden marvel, full of ornate mosaics and sunburned colors and smooth stone-work that rose and fell in graceful arches and rounded, glazed domes. Most remarkable, though, were its inhabitants. The beautiful, dark-skinned people of Jador did nothing to hamper Gilwyn’s exploration of the palace. They gave him ample room whenever he passed by, occasionally offering a deferential though suspicious smile. He was an outsider, after all, and outsiders had killed their kahana.
It was mid-afternoon when Gilwyn found himself outside on the palace grounds. As usual, Teku rode on his shoulder. Kadar’s home was surrounded by gardens, and Gilwyn liked to listen to the many gurgling fountains, so refreshing in the desert heat. Because the sun was high and hot, most people had gone indoors, but Gilwyn was tired of the palace and went instead to the outer gardens, a ring of fruit trees and desert flowers bordering the encroaching sands. From here he enjoyed an unobstructed view of the mountains, dark and foreboding in the distance. Gilwyn strode along a winding path of perfectly square bricks, the air thick with the scent of flowers he’d never seen before. Except for the sounds of tumbling water, the garden was remarkably quiet. He sat down on a huge stone and listened, content with his surroundings. As he stared out across the sands, he wondered about the mountains and what might lie beyond them. And he wondered about home, too, and how far he had come. Liiria was very far away, and he was in a different world now. He didn’t feel afraid, but he did feel out of place. Even if Kadar kept his word and decided not to punish them, what would happen to them now? None of them could return to Koth. And the library? A dead dream. The thought saddened Gilwyn. Without Figgis, the library would be cold and empty. All the work his old mentor had poured into it had been for nothing. Gilwyn looked down at his feet and studied the strange boot Figgis had made for him.