The Horse Lord

by Peter Morwood

  With a shrill noise barely recognisable as a scream, Esel clutched his stump with the remaining hand. There was no blood and instead of flesh an oily pulp bulged from the ruptured metal. It dripped clear ooze that had a sharply chemical stench, and it pulsed with a slow rhythm which in the severed portion fluttered briefly and then stopped.

  Aldric fought the churning in his stomach as he lifted the amputated half-arm and twisted the sword-hilt from its slack grip. He moved forward, stiff-legged both with anger and exhaustion.

  "Esel…" There was no longer any quaver in his voice, only hatred fired and tempered by the memory of how this—this thing had frightened him. "If you ever truly lived, you are truly dead now." Aldric poised the huge sword momentarily, then stabbed it home. The iceblade slid into the bronze katafrak's chest as easily as into a scabbard and there stuck fast. A convulsion wrenched the hilt from Aldric's grip—not that he was reluctant to let # go—and Esel staggered drunkenly towards his horse.

  Somehow the bronze warrior crawled into his saddle and sat there, plucking feebly at the sword protruding from a torso already thickly caked with ice. Then his horse jerkily raised one foreleg and stopped in that position. Esel leaned back, stump raised as if to hold his missing war-mask in a hand no longer there, and gazed fixedly into the distance.

  Both man and mount slowly overbalanced and fell with a vast splash into the moat. As the mass of metal rolled over and sank, the sword reared into view—and in that instant the whole surface of the moat froze over. Then the hilt slid out of sight, dragged through the crust by the weight of the metal in which it was embedded.

  Aldric watched it vanish. There was a full minute of shocked silence before the cheers began, and he turned a face curdled with disgust to watch how armed and armoured men came running up. Now that it was safe! The eijo's stomach heaved and tearing off his helmet he started to vomit.

  Kyrin bent over him and gently, with a kerchief wetted through a crack in the ice, she began to clean the flaking blood-streaks from his hair and chalk-white face. Reaction struck and, making a tiny whimpering noise, Aldric wrapped his steel-sheathed arms around her waist and clung on tight. Even through the armour she could feel the waves of shudders racking his body. The girl knelt and cradled his head, murmuring soft comforting sounds until the shaking died away.

  She glared as soldiers came clattering towards him— then blinked in shock as they levelled curving halberd blades. Their officer, a slight man whose face was sallow inside his rank-flashed helmet, surveyed her with a cold eye, then studied Aldric's face. The eijo licked dry lips and whatever flicker of expression crossed his face made the officer take a long step backwards. "Somebody get his sword," the soldier snapped, angry at being startled by a frightened boy in armour. But the fright had almost gone by now and Aldric was not so immature as he appeared. There was a glitter in his grey-green eyes suggesting that after a sorcery-created monstrosity like Esel, a mere officer of guards would give him little trouble.

  After several deep breaths he felt capable of speech and straightened his back unconsciously. "What is going on here?" His voice was soft, controlled once more and deliberately laced with menace.

  The officer tried to ignore his tacit threat and levelled one gloved finger at Kyrin. "You," he said, "help him to walk. Guards, watch them. Especially the eijo. I wouldn't think of escaping, an-kourgath" he finished, bolder once his soldiers had closed in.

  "I asked you a question," Aldric said. There were no more threats; he was too weary for playacting an unconvincing role and no longer cared whether or not he was given an answer. But he got one just the same.

  "My lord wants you," the officer returned. "Both of you. Now. At once."

  Six

  Contact

  Neither Aldric nor Kyrin had any idea of where they might be—there had been curtains tightly fastened over every window of the carriage which had brought them here. At least, the eijo reflected grimly as he glanced around their place of confinement, the cage was a gilded one.

  Gilded was an understatement, for the place was magnificent. Its walls were panelled in maplewood and carved burr walnut, the inlaid floor was thickly strewn with rugs. Scented oil in lamps of gold and crystal filled the air with fragrance and struck myriad reflections from gems and precious metals. The place should have been coarse and garish; instead it was tasteful, restrained and of such elegance that Kyrin found herself considering every move she made, lest it destroy the room's sense of graceful order.

  Aldric felt no such compunction; he was long past being overawed by mere fine furnishings and had been irritated both by apparent arrest and by his own brief, shaming loss of face. Slithering comfortably into a chair—and pointedly ignoring what his tsalaer was doing to the polished wood—he tried without success to work out who had captured him. If "captured" was the right word, and he was inclined to doubt it. Despite their brusque early treatment, it seemed now that they were less prisoners than guests—reluctant ones of course, but there had been a lack of threats, of locked doors or anything else suggestive of captivity. Wondering just how far his guesses would be borne out, he rose and walked quietly to the door.

  It was indeed unlocked and he eased it back a whisker—then bit on an oath and all but slammed it shut. There was a file of soldiers in the corridor outside, at ease, talking quietly, but all with weapons at their sides. So much, thought Aldric, for another fine idea. Closing the door, he leaned back against it until the latch clicked home.

  Both he and the girl had been disarmed—except for his tsepan, which was either criminal oversight or a deliberate act in keeping with the strangeness of this strange place. That his own armoured body was a useful weapon he knew already, but bareheaded against a dozen men it was nowhere near enough.

  There was a small table near one wall; on it stood flagons, goblets of worked metal and tiny, fragile glasses. The eijo filled two of these with a wine which was the brilliant, sinister colour of fresh blood and offered one to Kyrin. No word had passed between them since they had been taken and even now she thanked him only with a nod. Looking at the trembling hand she extended for her wine, and at lips compressed so tightly that they had no colour left, he could guess the reason why: Kyrin was terrified.

  Forcing his own lips into a smile, yet knowing it must look more like a grin of rage, Aldric slipped one mailed arm around her. "Drink up," he murmured. "If they'd meant us any harm we'd have found it out by now." That was not necessarily true, he thought sombrely, but kept it from darkening the false and brittle brightness of his voice. Kyrin blinked nervously at him and he heard the crystal clink against her teeth as she gulped down its contents. "Another?" he offered, holding up his own glass. "If it does no other good, it will help you to relax. You're shaking." He tightened his embrace a fraction and leaned towards her face.

  "I bid you welcome to my house," purred a voice from just behind them. Aldric controlled himself in time, but 'Kyrin jumped and failed to stifle her gasp of shock. When they turned around, it was with the slowness of exaggerated calm. The speaker stood in a sweep of darkness just beyond the lamplight; his outline was vague, and only the points of light from jewels and embroidered garments gave them any indication of possible shapes.

  "I would offer you refreshment—but it seems no longer necessary," the voice observed rather tartly. There might have been some disapproval in its soft tone; there was certainly a thread of accent which put Aldric on his guard at once. Despite the precision of his Alban words, this man was still more accustomed to the guttural consonants of Drusalan: the Imperial tongue.

  "I beg pardon," the young eijo responded insincerely. He gestured towards the cups and flagon. "May I pour you some…"

  "My thanks, but no. I do not drink wine. The sun has not yet set." That last irrelevant statement struck Aldric as odd and he stared at the intruder when at last he deigned to leave his cloak of shadows and walk forward so that they could see him. The man was several inches taller than Aldric, but his height was offset by a
burly, powerful frame which reminded the Alban of a bear; a weatherbeaten bear whose dark hair was greying, but a cold-eyed, scar-faced carnivore for all that.

  Flicking a glance at the worn hilt of a low-slung sword and the blunt, capable hand resting on its pommel, Aldric inclined his head respectfully. He bowed not merely to the physical strength so apparent here, but to the power Of authority which the big man wore like a garment; Aldric had possessed a little of such power himself and knew politeness to be just good sense.

  "Might we be offered some explanation for what has been happening today?" Aldric speculated warily. The man stroked his moustache, perhaps to hide a smile, perhaps not.

  "Curious," he muttered. "Almost the words I was going to use." Then he did smile, if anything so small and fleeting deserved the name. "Explanations will be given and received presently. For now, sit down; be still; make free with the wine—I am assured it is excellent."

  Aldric opened his mouth to continue this diplomatic exchange, but was interrupted by four soldiers who stamped in and snapped to attention on either side of the door. The moustached man drew himself more upright, while his two unwilling guests forgot about making themselves comfortable and instead waited apprehensively for the next development.

  This took the form of a man in a gold-worked purple over-robe who swept an interested gaze around the room. In his forties, he was slightly built and wore his thinning fair hair in the three braids of a high-clan ar-luth. He limped as he entered and the padding of his under-tunic almost—but not quite—concealed the crooked tilt of his left shoulder. A golden crest-collar at his throat bore a pendant rayed-sun centred with a single ruby the size of a thrush's egg. The eyes in his clean-shaven face were a clear hazel, like sunlight through water, and tiny crow's-feet wrinkled the skin around them as he stared long and hard at the two strangers in this tranquil room.

  Aldric did not return the stare as he normally would; instead he knelt with studied feline grace and touched brow to floor in First Obeisance. Kyrin copied him, wanting to ask questions but knowing enough to realise that this was neither the time nor the place. She had gleaned one important answer from the eijo's bow alone.

  This slender man was Rynert, the king.

  "Up, you two," he said, taking a seat and accepting an offered glass of wine. "Now, Dewan… what is all this? Your report was a trifle… garbled, shall we say? Give me the translation, please."

  Dewan… The name rang a long-forgotten bell in Aldric's memory; the name of King Rynert's captain-of-guards, personal champion, adviser, confidant and friend. Dewan ar Korentin, late of the province of Vrei-jaur on the edge of the Empire's influence in Jouvann, and equally late a much-decorated Eldheisart—lord-commander—of the Bodyguard cavalry in Imperial Drakkesborg.

  Ar Korentin spoke briefly, his accent and mode of speech clipping the words shorter still. As Aldric listened, he wondered that the king even bothered to hear such an improbable episode, much less give it any credence. Yet Rynert set down his wineglass and listened closely, twisting at a signet ring on his little finger, turning it round and round again… Then he looked up and Aldric almost fancied he could see the thoughts swimming like fish in his lord's translucent eyes.

  "Eijo-an, you call yourself Kourgath—that's only the beast on your crest-collar. Tell me your true name."

  "I… mathern-an arluth, lord king, I was once kailin-eir Aldric Talvalin."

  There was a hiss of indrawn breath from ar Korentin, and the faint slither of steel as he half-drew his sword all but drowned a gasp uttered by one of the soldiers near the door. "You lying—" started the Vreijek angrily, then fell silent at a gesture from Rynert.

  "Put up your sword, Dewan. There will be time for it later, if need be. You, eijo, why do you claim to be one of the Talvalins, when everyone knows of the plague in Dunrath three years ago? And choose your explanation carefully."

  "Because the name is mine, mathern-an. If 'everyone' knows of this plague, why would I be so stupid as to use a dead man's name?"

  Rynert's eyebrows lifted; he had expected some intricate excuse, not a blunt admission of guilt. Or was it guilt… ? The warrior's reasoning was sound enough. "Can you give me any proof?" he demanded. Aldric shook his head; Gemmel had warned him not to carry anything which might identify him as other than the eijo he was supposed to be. His foster-father had not foreseen this.

  "Unfortunate." Rynert's voice was cold and sceptical. "You almost convinced me for a moment. I fear that Dewan's inquisitors will have to prise the truth from—" he broke off as one of his guards stepped forward and slammed a salute.

  "Why do you interrupt the king?" snapped ar Korentin dangerously.

  "Proof, captain," muttered the soldier, frightened now by his own boldness. He pulled off his helmet and dropped to one knee, revealing a homely, well-battered face and a spreading broken nose.

  "Well?" asked Rynert, curious to know what light a mere sentry could throw on this situation. Aldric doubted it would do much good; the man's face meant nothing to him and he doubted if he would have forgotten such misshapen features if he had ever set eyes on them before.

  "I've seen that one before, sire," the soldier said. "Him in the black armour. Wore his hair properly then and didn't have that cut on his cheek, but it's the same man. I'd swear to it."

  Rynert smiled coldly. "You might have to. Where and when did you meet him?"

  "Not meet, sire. I saw him in a—with respect, skein a tavern brawl I got caught up in. In Radmur, that was, a couple of years back."

  "A couple?" broke in ar Korentin. "How many exactly?"

  "Well, three, captain. Three last autumn, I think. That was when I got this." He touched his flattened nose. "They said he was just past Eskorrethen, but he was a rare fighter for all that. Over a woman, the trouble was, and her somebody else's lady too." Stirring uncomfortably, Aldric felt Kyrin's eyes rest on him like two hot coins laid against his skin. "Then the Prefect took us all under arrest and I got posted to the Guards in Cerdor— to give me a taste of discipline they said."

  "Dewan, remind me to write to Uwin at Radmur-hold," said King Rynert; though he sounded amused, no humour showed on his face. "He must remember that the Guards cohort isn't somewhere to dump his rubbish…"

  "Captain…" the soldier muttered as reproachfully as he dared.

  Dewan's face twitched as he too fought down his amusement. "They aren't always rubbish, King. Mostly— but not always."

  "I see," Rynert murmured, looking at the guard. "One last question, soldier. What was this kailin's name?"

  "Talvalin, sire. Haranil-arluth's youngest son Aldric. That's the name he gave the Radmur magistrates, anyway."

  "Enough. Dismissed!" After the sentry had returned to his place Rynert glanced at his captain. "Promote him, Dewan, and make sure he's paid a bounty for this. He's observant, clever enough"—his voice rose slightly—

  "and he stopped a miscarriage of justice. Take a seat, Aldric-an. I beg pardon for what might have happened." The eijo saluted in acknowledgment, then sat down carefully, thankful to get the weight of his armour off legs which had become very weak in the past few minutes.

  At a nod from the king, his guards wheeled and left the room. Ar Korentin poured wine for Kyrin, Aldric and—after a swift look out at the sky—himself. "But you said—" the eijo began in surprise, then shrugged and fell silent.

  "I do not drink wine? Not on holy days, like Spring-Feast; then it's not permitted until after sunset—but it's quite dark now." He took a trial sip. "And this was worth the wait."

  "Aldric-an," said Rynert quietly, "I sent my guards outside so that you could speak freely. I want you to tell me what is happening in my kingdom. Leave nothing out—I have a feeling yours is the only story which has all the details I require."

  Aldric nodded, moistened his mouth with a little wine and began.

  "It's incredible," said Dewan ar Korentin. "I have never in my life heard anything so fantastic—except maybe that you want us to believe it."
<
br />   Very softly, King Rynert cleared his throat. "I believe it, Dewan," he murmured. "If he was lying it would be a credible, well-thought-out lie, the kind of thing you've heard in the law courts before now. Not something like this.

  "And don't forget what you saw this afternoon, old friend. How thick was the ice on that moat… ?" Dewan inclined his head a little but said nothing. "I wondered a little when I saw your hair, Aldric-an," Rynert continued. "Though I've seen eijin before, you're the first venjens-eijo I've met in my life. The oath was taken against this—Duergar, you called him—this Imperial necromancer, and no one else?"

  "Only against him. Why do you ask, mathern-an?"

  Rynert hesitated then and looked for confirmation at ar Korentin. The Vreijek nodded slowly. "Better that he hears it from you, King," he said. "For he'll hear it somehow."

  A coldness awoke in the pit of Aldric's stomach and sent tendrils burrowing up the marrow of his spine. "Hear what… ?"

  "Aldric-an… Aldric Talvalin, your brother Baiart told me none of this."

  "My… brother? Baiart's alive? Alive?" The cold in his belly gave a sluggish heave and sourness fouled his throat. "Is he in Cerdor… ?"

  There was a pathetic hope in the youngster's voice which made Rynert slow to answer. "No. In Dunrath. As Clan-Lord. I granted him the title myself." Aldric looked away, and the only person who saw his face before he controlled it was Kyrin. She winced visibly. "Kailin-eir Aldric," the king continued, his tone growing sharp, "do not assume the worst. He may be under threat—or even a spell, if what you've said of Duergar is even half the truth."

  "And if he isn't? What then? The word, lord king, is traitor!" Slamming one fist against the wall, Aldric heeded neither the crack of a split panel nor the pain and blood of his own torn knuckles. "That oath… I cannot kill my own brother. I don't want to. I will not!"

  "You will not," echoed the king. "I forbid it. The law—and the crime it governs—is no longer so black-and-white as that recognised by the old Honour-Codes. Leave Baiart Talvalin to the Council Court and to me. Leave your brother to my laws, Aldric. Remember that. Give him some wine, Dewan—no, better make it something stronger. And call a surgeon for that hand."